


Tales of Earth

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Cybertron [7]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Earth: the second front in the Transformers' centuries-old civil war. Already sworn to protect their adopted home, Ultra Magnus and his "Earthforce" find themselves drawn into the Planet Key quest in a most shocking fashion. Old enemies will return, secrets will be revealed and unexpected heroes will rise!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to newsy891, for her muse-like assistance.

“Bulkhead, I’ve got some fantastic news.”

“Hmm?”

“Well, fantastic is maybe puttin’ it a little mildly.”

“Oh really.”

“More like… stupendous. Magnificent. Unparalleled.”

“Planning on sharing this news any time soon, Mr Thesaurus?”

“Oh, of course,” Scattorshot drawled, then paused for emphasis. “Right now, in fact.” He paused again.

Bulkhead sighed, resisted the urge to smack his partner upside the cranial casing, and asked what he knew would be the fatal question. “What is your stupendous, magnificent, unparalleled news?”

The smaller Autobot grimaced hopelessly. “I ain’t found slag,” he wailed.

Bulkhead growled, low and deep in his synthesiser, and kicked at a nearby boulder. A small piece broke off with a satisfying _crunch_ , then rolled and skipped into the valley below. Bulkhead watched it fall, mesmerised, and for an astrosecond toyed with the idea of following it down.

It was his fifteenth suicidal thought for the day. Not bad… usually, by this time, he was up to his thirtieth.

“Now there’s no need to be like that,” Scattorshot said, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. “I mean, it’s obvious we’re not the right Autobots for this job – the boss bot’ll understand that, right?”

Bulkhead grunted.

“Tow-Line would be perfect,” Scattorshot babbled, “but he’s confined to base until his communications array’s fixed. ‘Cause he can’t transform to vehicle mode without it, I mean.”

He sighed and he lowered his hand-held energy scanner. “The sooner Downshift gets back and starts fixin’ stuff, the better off we’ll all be. Even then,” his characteristic pessimism crept to the fore, “there’s no guarantee Tow-Line’s array’ll work properly anymore.”

“It’ll fit right in with the Earthforce, then,” Bulkhead snapped. “Frell, it could qualify for Earthforce commander. It’s another job requiring a non-functional machine, after all.”

Scattorshot stared in horror. “You can’t mean that, Bulkhead!” he cried. “You’re talking ‘bout Ultra Magnus – the Autobot’s greatest warrior! He’s Optimus Prime’s brother, so they say… can you imagine the mech who designed two legends like that?”

He fidgeted nervously. “I’m sitting here worrying about disappointing the big ‘bot, about looking like a failure in front of _the_ Ultra Magnus, and you’re going on like a Dinobot with a case of rebellion fever!”

Bulkhead frowned, his orange face plate contorting with fury. “Ultra _frelling_ Magnus,” he snarled. “Jumped-up, battle-suited, borehole-minded Mini-con with delusions of grandeur…”

“Um… right,” Scattorshot stammered. “Maybe we should get moving to the next scanning spot, huh?”

The Autobot transformed, his body folding in on itself until it became a small, blue and yellow armoured vehicle. He revved his engine and began to trundle away on his combined wheels/tank treads system – the only design strong enough to bear his giant rear-mounted missile launchers.

Bulkhead executed a small jump and transformed in mid-air, his long, lithe body flowing into a sleek, deadly helicopter. His green and white metalwork flashed as he took to the air, charting a course to their next destination.

He rose, higher and higher, taking delight in the air around him. He may have disliked Earth, he may have resented his position in the Autobot forces and he may have thought their mission was a fool’s errand, but Bulkhead had no issue with his new alternate form. After years in the trenches of Iacon, of backing up Omega Supreme during the siege, being able to cut loose and fly whenever he wanted was a joy. Perhaps his sole joy.

Bulkhead’s keen optics caught sight of a dark shape, hanging in the distance a few miles away. It was right at the edge of the city limits, circling over one of the larger freeway off-ramps. He turned toward it and focused his scanners, trying to get a better reading. At first blush it was a jet, no different to the hundreds of others he’d seen on this world. That was at first blush… a second scan, a deeper scan, revealed more than met the optics.

Familiar. That one word summed up the rapidly approaching jet. From the tips of its dual nosecones to the ends of its angular wings, the vehicle was horribly familiar. Bulkhead had spent hundreds of thousands of vorns longing to reduce that green, black and orange metalwork to scrap, years wanting nothing more than to drive his fingers into its engine and rip it out, still running. He didn’t need to be any closer to see the Decepticon insignia, smell the stench of its polluting engines, imagine the sneer crossing its hidden face. It was Slugslinger – he knew it – the mech that helped kill the Wreckers.

“That scanner of yours,” Bulkhead yelled to Scattorshot, “is even more worthless than I’d imagined. Decepticon at eight o’clock.”

“What?” Scattorshot asked anxiously. “Ain’t nothing anywhere I can see. You sure?”

“I’ll bring you back a wing as proof,” the helicopter snarled. “ _Maybe_.”

He heard Scattorshot tell him to wait, urge him to hold off, but ignored the cries. He switched his communicator off and poured on the speed, moving to intercept his long-time nemesis.

Every time they’d come across one another, since that horrific night in the Imperial Amphitheatre, Slugslinger had been in company. From the moment they had conspired to slaughter the Wreckers – Bulkhead’s former unit and best friends – Slugslinger, Sharkticon and Shockblast had rarely been apart. Like all cowards, they believed in safety in numbers… thought the weight of their teamwork would save them from the lone survivor of their massacre.

It wouldn’t, but that hardly mattered now. Bulkhead had his chance to take down one of the three members of the Mayhem Attack Squad – to avenge Scavenger, Overcast and the others at long last – and he was not about to waste it. Slugslinger was part of the reason Bulkhead was alone – part of the reason he was a throwback, a warrior out of time and out of touch with “the Autobot way”. Time to repay that “favour”.

He drew closer, flying far higher and faster than could any Earth-made helicopter. That was, of course, against the rules – Autobots were not allowed to do anything in range of human settlements that might draw attention. Secrecy and disguise at all times, Magnus had lectured again and _again_ , every time forgetting the point. They were here to kick skid plate, find the damn Key and go home. Nothing else mattered… nothing save this change for vengeance.

Bulkhead was five hundred metres from his target when his scanners whipped into action again. Another familiar sensation, this one less pleasant. The Autobot registered two human life signs – heartbeats and respiration rates he and his colleagues had come to treasure, these past few years. He refocused his forward scopes and almost cried out in alarm. Locked in Slugslinger’s dual cockpits, their faces streaked with sweat and tears, were Kicker and his girlfriend Misha… the Autobot’s human allies.

“Slugslinger!” Bulkhead roared. “You filthy…”

The Decepticon laughed – a vile, nasty, knife-edged sound – and rocketed away, leaving clouds of pollution in his wake. Bulkhead gave chase, following the odious path down into the depths of the freeway. Slugslinger was an incredible flyer – second only to Megatron, it was rumoured – and he negotiated the twisting concrete with ease. But Bulkhead was no slouch at the stick, either, and pushed his frame to the max. By the time the jet swooped out from under the roadways, Bulkhead was within one hundred metres of its tail fins… and _gaining_ every second.

His side blistered with heat. Someone was shooting at him! Bulkhead quickly slapped a target trace on Slugslinger, refusing to lose him due to distraction, then turned to face the new threat. The blast had come from the line of cars below… a black, box-shaped muscle car with tinted windows and – yes – a Decepticon symbol on its hood. As he watched, the car twisted and turned into a robot with glowing red eyes and an ebony plate obscuring its mouth. It lifted a long, red rifle at him and fired, again and again, trying to bring him down.

More blaster fire came from a different level of the looping roadway – this time from a long flat-bed truck. Its crane assembly glowed brilliantly with green Energon as it sought to bring him down. It transformed, faster than its bulk should have allowed, into a towering Decepticon warrior. Its face was stoic and determined.

Bulkhead did not recognise it – he knew neither of his new enemies – but still he did not hesitate. He cycled two fog-fire missiles into his undercarriage launchers and let them loose. The first slammed bodily into the truck robot, engulfing it in a transparent liquid mist. The substance ignited on contact with metal, leaving its howling target a towering inferno in the middle of the road.

The second missile impacted to one side of the car robot, throwing a shower of liquid into the air and across the blacktop. A trail of flame licked and leapt at the unfortunate Decepticon, burning first its feet and then its legs as it coiled, serpent-like, up and around his metal form. The black car screamed with impotent fury as it melted into slag.

_Two down, with one… the real one… to go._

Bulkhead sent a surge of Energon into his rotor assembly, willing its pace to quicken and bring him closer to Slugslinger. The fog-fire missiles were no good for air-to-air combat – not to mention lethal to his trapped human allies – and so a delicate touch was called for. Bulkhead knew exactly what he wanted to do and how to go about it… all he needed was to be a _little bit closer_.

Arrogant to the end, Slugslinger pulled around in a wide arc and came to face Bulkhead, powering up his centre-mounted missile launcher. It was precisely the opening the Autobot needed. He fired his “last-ditch” emergency thrusters and transformed, riding the wave of momentum and defying gravity for a precious few seconds. Hefting his rotor blades in his hands, Bulkhead swung them like twin swords and brought them crashing through the jet’s left wing. It tumbled away… then Bulkhead tumbled after it… then Slugslinger, losing all manoeuvrability, followed them both down toward the ground.

Bulkhead braced his powerful legs as he fell, using his arms to keep his balance and ensure he landed feet-first. A second after the severed wing clattered to the ground, the Autobot landed – narrowly missing a street-side coffee shop and its customers – and sprang back into the air, making good use of his unique leaping ability. As he rose skyward once more, he passed the plummeting – and strangely silent – Slugslinger, and watched the panicked jet fire its emergency VTOL thrusters.

They landed within seconds of one another, Bulkhead wasting no time. Ignoring the rules and the staring, fear-stricken human diners, he strode across to his downed foe and plunged both hands into his cockpits. “Don’t worry, guys,” he told Kicker and Misha as he scooped them up, “this’ll all be over in a moment.”

“Oh no! Put us down – please!”

The voice was completely unfamiliar. Bulkhead looked down… and his optics telescoped in shock. The woman in his left hand was not Misha. His ally was a young female of Asian descent, with long black hair and almond-shaped eyes. This human was significantly older and much, much heavier. She seemed to be suffering some kind of internal mechanism malfunction, as she was clutching as her fleshy chest with one hand and a small gold cross with the other.

Bulkhead had a sinking feeling in his sump. He opened his other hand – the one that should have been holding Kicker – and found only an elderly human male, curled up in a foetal position and breathing shallowly. The human’s skin was grey and unhealthy-looking, and scans indicated his heart rate was very, very low.

“I don’t understand,” Bulkhead muttered, his processor reeling. “You were… I mean, Slugslinger…”

The charred, broken vehicle at his feet was not Slugslinger.

It was not a disguised Decepticon, a sleek vehicle that had made an emergency landing on VTOL thrusters. It was little more than twisted remains, but it had been a two-seater light aircraft – the type, Bulkhead knew, used by human recreational flyers. Parts of it were on fire, parts dangerously close to leaking fuel tanks.

Sirens and lights blazed around him as the Earth authorities arrived on the scene. Realising the full horror of what he had done – fearing what that meant for the other “Decepticons” he had attacked – Bulkhead set the two humans down by the dazed coffee shop patrons and transformed. He rose into the air as quickly as he could, his shame burning as brightly as the wreckage below.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Simon Furman and newsy891, for their inspirations.

“I can’t deal with that now,” Ultra Magnus snapped, exasperated.

Kicker glared contemptuously. It was one of his more savage glares, he thought, and he was annoyed it was wasted on the Transformer’s armoured back. He felt like reverting to the old ways and driving his foot into Magnus’ steel leg, yelling “Gimme a break!”.

 _The old ways. A long time ago_ , he reminded himself. _Perhaps not chronologically, but emotionally for sure._. He swallowed his frustration and tried again.

“I understand how you feel, Kicker,” Magnus said, “But we have no time. The search for the Planet Key has to take priority over everything else. Two have been found, and the third is in the hands of the Decepticons. We can ill afford to fail in our search.”

“Magnus, this is something you _have_ to deal with now, like it or not,” Kicker pleaded, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. “Bulkhead opened fire on three civilian vehicles – a light plane, a car and a construction truck – for no reason! He _transformed_ in the middle of the city – about three blocks away from a newspaper office!

“It’s a miracle no one managed to get a photograph of him… and an even bigger miracle that pilot survived. He had a heart attack, you know.”

Magnus’ shoulders slumped.

“Optimus Prime made these rules for a reason,” Kicker continued. “He knows – hell, we all know – there would be mass panic if word got out about you guys. A war between living cars, trucks and planes on the streets and in the deserts of the planet… people would go crazy with paranoia.”

The Autobot Earthforce commander spun his chair around and met Kicker’s eyes. He sighed. “Kicker… I’m sorry. And you’re right – this is something we can’t ignore.

“We Autobots have hidden our presence on your world successfully for the past four years, largely due to my brother’s plans and regulations, and I have no intention of the Transformers becoming general public knowledge on my watch. The suspicions of your government and military leaders are bad enough.”

“So you’re going to…”

“I’m _going_ to confine Bulkhead to base until further order, and have Red Alert check him over,” Magnus said firmly. “I’ll have some of the Mini-cons set up discreet surveillance around the hospital… make sure the pilot comes through all right.”

He rested his chin on one of his massive hands. “Thank the Matrix those other drivers – the ones in the car and the truck – escaped unharmed.”

Kicker shook his head. “Confining him to base is not good enough,” he said. “This goes beyond the norm. If Bulkhead had been fighting a Decepticon and the battle spilled into the city, that’d be almost acceptable. But firing on unarmed civilians for no reason? I… what?”

Magnus had a strange look on his face.

“What?” Kicker again demanded.

“Civilians.” The Autobot repeated. “It makes me sad to hear you use that word, to talk about your fellow humans that way. You’re 21 years old, yet you sound like a hundred-vorn veteran. I feel like we’ve… corrupted you somehow. Pulled you away from the human race and made you an outsider. Dragged you into our war.”

“Yeah, well, if you remember,” Kicker said glumly, “I kind of dragged your war here.”

“I know. But you mustn’t blame yourself for incidents like today.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t – all of my blame is reserved for Bulkhead,” Kicker confirmed. “What kind of jerk is he, anyway? I thought Grimlock was the only Autobot prone to shooting first and asking questions of scrap metal.”

Magnus paused. “Bulkhead is… one of a kind,” he said finally. “In more ways than you might suspect.”

He fell silent. Kicker frowned, waiting for an explanation that never came.

“Fine,” he said. “Play your little secret games of politics,” he sneered. “I’m heading into the city, see if there’s something I can’t do to help with repairs or something.”

He pulled his helmet into place, slid a leather jacket over his Cybertronian body armour and walked toward the door. “When you figure out what you’re _really_ doing about this situation, Magnus, give me a call.”

The command centre doors slid shut behind him. Kicker walked a few hundred metres, then looked around to make sure he was alone. Satisfied, he launched a flurry of kicks at one of the wall panels. When his anger had abated… and his toes and ankle ached… he limped toward the main meeting room.

_Old days. Yeah, right. I guess we’re all slaves to the forces that made us, no matter how much we think we’ve changed._

Joshua “Kicker” Jones – nicknamed for his violent reaction to frustration – was 16 when his war began. He’d spent his birthday that year as he had so many before it – haunting some remote, forgotten backwater with his father. Atticus Jones was something of a kook, and his obsession was alternate energy sources. Kicker would have rather stayed at home and tinkered with his machines… his beaten-up trail bike, his dilapidated scooter, even the motorised skateboard he couldn’t get to work… than be choking on dust in the middle of nowhere.

Even at home, he could scarcely escape his father’s craze. Their house was a mess of solar panels, wind-catching fans, water-powered turbines and other junk that worked less than half the time. His father’s university office wasn’t much better… one part research lab, one part Grateful Dead tribute museum. But the old man spent as little time at those locations as he could – he l preferred to live out of a battered, alcohol-fuelled hippie van, dragging his increasingly embarrassed son along on another “adventure”.

Kicker would have refused to go… were it not for Misha Onishi, his father’s top student. When they’d first met, the 16-year-old prodigy was already studying earth resources at an undergraduate level. She shared Professor Jones’ passion for alternate energy… and, with his son, shared a different sort of passion. The frequent research trips provided ample time for a young couple to be alone – almost enough to be worth enduring hours of talk about the 1970s energy crisis and decidedly awful eight-track music tapes.

“Kids, there has got to be a better way to power the planet,” Professor Jones would crow from the front seat. “In the 70s, we were convinced the fossil fuels were about to dry up. In the 90s, everyone thought ‘green’ but did little about it. Solar power’s expensive, oil barons want to stay rich… if the planet’s going to survive, it’s up to the little people to find a viable alternative. The little people like us.’’

They’d found something, all right.

Spelunking in a cave, looking for “geothermal geysers” or ley lines or some rubbish, they’d become separated. Kicker had slipped and fallen, deeper and deeper into the network… and into another world. It was a cavernous sphere of metal and circuitry, bordered by 18 silvery pods. The small, cockpit-like devices were connected to one another with thick cables and gossamer wiring. He’d reached out to touch one, his curiosity overflowing, when it happened.

He’d heard a _hiss_ and a _snap_ behind him and, when he turned, found himself face-to-screen with a small, hovering device. It was a probe, he would learn later… a device designed to explore alien environments and help its owners best acclimatise to their new surrounds. That knowledge came later – at that moment of first contact, all he knew was that the device was speaking to him.

“Explore!” it cried in a tinny voice, startling him. He managed a slight step back before the device fired a beam of brilliant light, right into his eyes, and he fell unconscious to the floor.

Kicker woke, minutes later, stirred by the device’s droning exclamations. “Repair!” It cried, over and over. “Repair!” Rubbing his aching head, he’d scanned the room and found he was no longer alone. The silhouettes looked like people, but only for a second… when his vision cleared, he’d noticed the angled arms, the blocky legs, the squared-off heads and etched features. He was surrounded by 18 robots, all of different colours and designs but all of a uniform height – just shy of seven feet. One of them reached out with a metallic hand, helped Kicker to his feet and said, in perfect English, “hello, friend”.

Kicker had met the Mini-cons.

They were Transformers, he would learn over the hours that followed – mechanical beings able to disguise their bodies as vehicles and machinery. They had fled their home world, Cybertron, to escape the cruel intentions of a being called Megatron. He wished to use them as batteries, energy reserves to power an army – the Decepticons – that was deadlocked in its struggle with another band called Autobots. Though the Mini-cons had sympathies for the Autobots, Kicker quickly gleaned neither side was immensely popular.

Something had gone awry during their escape and they had crashed landed, millions of years earlier, and laid dormant. Kicker’s touch had awakened them, while their probe of his mind had given them new alternate modes and knowledge of a new language.

There was Skyblast, Payload and Astroscope – part action, part science, all brains. Mirage, Downshift and Dirt Boss lived for speed, while Iceberg, Ransack and Dune Runner wanted to see every inch of their new world. Runway, Jetstorm and Sonar were aloof, secretive and snobbish – the exact opposite of High Wire, Grindor and Sureshock. The adventurous trio lived for fun and exploration, and chose alternate forms based on Kicker’s home-made vehicles. Over time, they were to become his best friends.

Finally, there was Over-Run, who was the oldest of the Mini-cons, and Sparkplug, their nominal leader. Over-Run was intense, almost spiritual, and obviously the wisdom of the group. Sparkplug was their youth, vigour and inspiration – the one who had spurred the escape in the first place. He was brash, passionate and not the most clear-headed commander in history… but with Over-Run’s help, he was fast maturing.

At first, Kicker had kept his new friends’ existence from his father and Misha. He would steal away from home as often as he could, returning to the caves for a few furtive hours with the Mini-cons. It was a 16-year-old boy’s dream – every great moment from _ET_ and _The Last Starfighter_ all wrapped up into a secret package of adventure. When High Wire, Sureshock and Grindor came home with him – replacing the busted vehicles in his garage – he finally let Misha in on the secret.

It was high adventure, the ultimate rush. Kicker, Misha and their robotic friends, exploring the world in secret. Runway and his team took them to the highest altitudes; Ransack and co to the farthest reaches of the land. Astroscope explained the universe; Grindor explored the depths of their imagination. Sparkplug, meanwhile, worked to make them all safe, but in the best possible way… with happiness, with care and with consideration. He even had Astroscope construct armoured suits for both humans, just to protect them as they pushed past their limits.

Kicker’s experience with the probe, meanwhile had produced a strange side effect – he was able to sense the presence of Energon. The basic fuel for Transformers, Energon was a naturally occurring substance on Earth… provided you knew where to look. Not only could it power Transformers, it was potent enough to solve the problems his father had long complained of.

It could have been a miracle, a career-making find… but that would have meant exposing the Mini-cons to the world. In the hardest decision of his young life, Kicker kept his father in the dark about Energon.

He drifted further and further away from his dad as the months wore on. He tried not to think too much about it at the time. Kicker was 17 and living the dream of every sci-fi obsessed kid – there would be time enough later for them to reconnect. He ignored the pain on the old man’s face that increased with every refused trip. Kicker had not even paused to say goodbye, the last morning he saw his father… the day his father died.

Professor Atticus Jones, the authorities claimed, died in a freak accident – the victim of an unexploded land mine, hidden deep in the thickets he was exploring. Time proved that theory wrong. Kicker learned, to his horror, that his fathered had been murdered because of the strange radiation he was giving off… radiation picked up from exposure to the Mini-cons. It had drawn the Decepticons to Professor Jones and signed his death warrant. Worse, still, was the realisation the Decepticons had come to Earth because Kicker had woken the Mini-cons… and set off a distress beacon at the same time.

They had gone on the run; desperate to stay one step ahead of the Decepticons. Desperate to stay alive. For six months, the Mini-cons and the humans criss-crossed the globe, trying to evade Megatron, Starscream, Scorponok and Wheeljack long enough for the Autobots to arrive. They’d succeeded but, in the process, turned the whole planet into a new front for a centuries-old war.

Everything that had happened since, Kicker reasoned, was his fault. His father’s death, the destruction of towns, cities and homes, the slaughter of innocent soldiers and civilians, the loss of Runway and his team… the blame rested solely on Kicker’s shoulders. By touching the cable, he’d re-activated the war.

That was why he stayed with the Autobots – why he’d burned their symbol into the breastplate of his armour. That was why he would stay with them to the bitter end, no matter the cold seeping through his heart. He had started the war, and refused to stand down until it was finished.

Kicker reached the main meeting room and waved to High Wire. The Mini-con nodded, then transformed into a trail bike. Kicker leaped aboard and twisted the throttle. The sound brought Ransack and Dune Runner into the room. They, too, transformed and, as a group, the four friends roared out of the secret Earthforce base and into the afternoon sunshine. The brilliant light failed to warm Kicker, or to lift his dour mood. 

“Our one saving grace,” he told High Wire, leaning in close to the Mini-con’s handlebars, “is that the Autobots and Decepticons have only been here for four years. I’d hate to think what sort of damage they would have done if they’d landed centuries ago.”

\-----

It was the single most pathetic, miserable, rancid, smelly, useless waste of a planet he’d had the misfortune of being confined to. Nevertheless, Earth had a magnificent sun… a glowing, fiery, all-encompassing celestial body that Starscream identified with.

Earth’s sun gave the Decepticon aerospace commander his due. As it set, it glinted off his sculpted bodywork, highlighting the subtle touches of yellow that undercut his crimson and white frame. It gleamed on the razor-sharp edges of his masterful Cybertronian design – unlike the Autobots, he had not sullied himself by taking on an Earth-like alternate mode.

He’d scoffed when, upon their arrival, Scorponok had suggested he ape something called an F-15. As if one of his beauty, his masterful perfection, would ever sully himself by transforming into a tawdry, ramshackle jet! Bad enough he was consigned to a muddy, organic world in the hunt for the Mini-cons – and again now, in the hunt for the Planet Key. He would brook no further insults to his superiority, thank you very much!

The sun was a shining light in the dull blue sky. Starscream, standing tall atop a rocky outcrop, was a shining light in a dull army. Losing the battle for the Mini-cons, losing control of Unicron, losing two of the four Planet Keys – “losing”, it seemed, had become synonymous with “Decepticon”. Not for much longer, though.

He had every intention of claiming Earth’s Key… _for himself_ … and restoring the Decepticons to their true place of power… _with himself in command_. No more chafing under Megatron’s idiotic, careening style of leadership. He could almost see the crown they’d place upon his noble brow. It would be four-pointed, gold, with emeralds. No – rubies!

Megatron could go on believing fairy tales about Primus and Unicron if he so chose. Starscream knew what the Planet Keys truly were – just like the Matrix, they were powerful tools that the superstitious had deified through stupidity. Look at the evidence – Mini-cons boost Transformer power levels, Planet Keys boost planetary power levels. It was written into the basic digital sequencing of their race! Only an idiot would find a divine hand behind such an obvious product of mechanical evolution.

Evolution that, Starscream felt, had rightfully culminated in his creation.

A droning voice broke into his thoughts. “Planetary scan complete,” Shockblast said through the communicator. “I’ve located three potential locations for the Planet Key, based on the readings Megatron stole from Vector Prime. Two of those sites have already been scanned and discounted by the Autobots, which leaves…”

“Thank you, Mr Cyclops-in-the-sky, but I _think_ we all have the silicon to figure _that_ out for ourselves,” Starscream sneered.

Shockblast’s lack of reply left Starscream grinning. He could imagine the one-eyed creep, orbiting the planet in his satellite mode, fuming silently at the rebuke. It made Starscream feel warm inside. Separated, isolated from his loyal supporters as he was, the ultra-logical – yet utterly deadly – Shockblast was far easier to control.

Unfortunately, that left Starscream face-to-face with those same loyalists.

Sharkticon wasn’t so bad. As far as he could tell, the foul-smelling aquatic warrior stuck with Shockblast more out of fear than anything else. Though he was a great stalker, tracker and hunter – right up there with Battle Ravage – Sharkticon had a pathological fear of the Autobot called Bulkhead. He knew the sole surviving Wrecker had sworn to kill all members of the infamous Mayhem Attack Squad, and the news Bulkhead was on Earth had set the Decepticon on edge. It was an anxiety upon which Starscream had played with great success.

The other, however, was a far different matter. Slugslinger was behind Starscream, casually flicking at the triggers of his weaponry. He claimed it was a nervous habit but it sounded like the timer on a thermal detonator. _Tick, tock, tick, tock_ … counting down the moments until the bullets started flying.

Starscream turned to face the gunner. He tried to smile, to be the very picture of a confident, appreciative leader. Slugslinger didn’t need to return the smile – he was _always_ smiling. Through some fault of the protoform process, half of his face plate was frozen in a permanent rictus, while one optic was a rough-hewn steel hole. Like the borehole of a gun barrel. The sight was far more sickening than any stench Sharkticon could produce.

Despite all of that, Slugslinger was the one Decepticon that came close to earning Starscream’s admiration. He was faster, more manoeuvrable and had greater endurance than Starscream – second only to Megatron, perhaps. Loathe as he was to admit it, the little junk pile’s uncanny accuracy with a blaster made him Starscream’s equal as a warrior, too.

He’d seen the way Megatron looked at Slugslinger, heard the praise heaped upon the deformed freak – and it made his trigger finger itch. In Megatron’s mind, Slugslinger was a future candidate for aerospace commander… and Starscream sincerely doubted his future included a nice retirement plan and a sign reading _dunmurderin'_.

His _real_ mission on Earth was two-fold: take possession of the Planet Key for himself, and find a way to scrap Slugslinger in the process.

He turned his attention back to Shockblast. “Assuming we’re trusting the Autobots to have searched the other two locations properly…”

“Which they will have. To risk a careless evaluation, given our present situation, would be highly illogical.”

“ _Rrrright_. As I was saying… assuming they’ve done their job, we’re off to the third site. And where, pray tell, are we headed?”

Shockblast laughed – the sound so uncommon, so unexpected it rattled Starscream. His confidence took another dive when Slugslinger and Sharkticon, hearing their friend’s amusement, joined in with laughter of their own.

“We are headed to the most appropriate place of all, logically speaking. The Planet Key is buried in the very same mountain range where, four years ago, you, Megatron and the others found the Mini-cons.

“It is directly beneath the Autobot Earthforce headquarters.”

\-----

_I think night-time is the best_.

Ultra Magnus couldn’t think of an aspect of life on Earth he _didn’t_ enjoy. After a lifetime of warfare on the barren, sterile metal plains of Cybertron, Earth’s greenery… its lush nature… was a tonic. He loved the rain, the dry heat of the deserts and the crisp air of the beaches.

Most of all he loved the night sky – so restful, and yet so interesting – and, especially, the moon.

Magnus felt a great kinship with Earth’s moon. Both were smaller bodies whose importance came from their location – to being in _just_ the right place. And they both glowed not with their own light, but by reflecting the brilliance and glory of another.

As the moon had the sun so, too, did Ultra Magnus have Optimus Prime.

He was more than content with that – happy to bathe in the occasional shaft of reflected glory. Happy to stand at the side of his “brother” and carry out his orders. Happy to devote himself to strategy, rather than to leadership, and contribute to their shared cause through his mind.

Were he being honest, there was one aspect of life on Earth he did not enjoy – being in command of the Autobots stationed there. His brother, he knew, felt guilty their war had spread to an innocent world. Magnus agreed, though part of him was grateful for anything that helped keep him in such a beautiful place.

That love, coupled with his shared sense of responsibility, made him willing to sacrifice anything to defend his new home. Even his life. He only wished he had the freedom to do that – to throw himself into the fray as a warrior should. Magnus, however, had a squadron of troops relying on him, looking to him for leadership.

It was a weight, he felt, his broad shoulders were ill-equipped to carry. Particularly in times such as these. If Grimlock – the mightiest of their warriors, the ruthless commander who went _through_ obstacles – had failed to recover a Planet Key, what chance did Magnus have?

Grimlock was a true Autobot, a finely honed warrior with the processor of a genius and the Spark of a raging animal. Magnus was… well, Magnus was a fraud. He was a Mini-con who, through chance, became fused to a high-powered battle suit. He was an expert tactician who relied on that same battle suit’s programming for his prowess. And he was a leader who fell back on stray brain patterns he’d inherited from Optimus Prime during their first combination. Nothing about him was natural.

Nothing about him was real.

He heard a polite cough behind him, and instantly recognised the sound. Red Alert, the Autobot medic, had found him. Magnus realised he’d been standing out in the open – on the grassy plains in front of the hidden Earthforce base – far longer than he’d planned.

“Bulkhead,” he said quietly, not wasting words. “Is it…”

Red Alert nodded.

“Missile madness.” Ultra Magnus shook his head sadly.

“Combat-induced neural surge,” Red Alert corrected. “CINS, if you must use a slang term. Symptoms include flashbacks, hallucinations, panic attacks, anxiety… chances are, Bulkhead thought he was looking at something other than a line of human cars when he opened fire this afternoon.”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen anyone with the condition,” Magnus said. “What can we do for him?”

Red Alert’s face twisted. “Mechanically, there isn’t anything wrong with him. I can’t just ‘break open’ his head and jiggle some wires.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Have you even seen a functioning Transformer brain?” Red Alert asked, not waiting for an answer. “Every single one is unique, and every single one is a tangled mess. It’s not a hardware problem.” He sniffed. “It’s not really a software problem, either. De-bugging his systems won’t do anything.”

Magnus sighed loudly. “Then what _do_ we do with him?”

“Confine him to base. Let him rest. Keep him out of the field until this passes.” His optics dimmed. “If, of course, it passes.”

Magnus sighed again. “Keep me posted,” he said. “Meantime, I’d best get back to the search.”

They were almost inside the base when he caught sight of two small, yellow lights, barrelling toward them. Scattorshot came fully into view, his front wheels spinning madly as he raced to catch up with the larger Autobots. “Wait!” he called in his deep Tyrestian accent. “I’ve found it! The Key!”

Magnus and Red Alert ran back outside, meeting Scattorshot halfway. The little blue tank transformed and dropped to his knees, gulping air to cool his overtaxed engine. Tense seconds drifted by as Scattorshot recovered, then fixed his leader with a plaintive look.

“I had one more go with them readings Downshift sent to us,” he puffed, “an’ I narrowed it down to three locations. Two of ‘em we’ve already been to, so I thought I’d have a look see at t’other. Didn’t take long.”

“Why?”

“Believe it or not,” Scattorshot drawled, “It’s right here. Underneath us. The Planet Key is beneath the ship that brought the Mini-cons to Earth.”

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, but Scattorshot was not finished. “I was double-checkin’ the readings when I noticed some friends of ours in the sky,” he said mournfully. “Starscream, Slugslinger and Sharkticon, all headed for this damn spot.”

Magnus didn’t hesitate. He hated being in command, but that hardly meant he was bad at it. “Red Alert, secure the base. Have Tow-Line contact central command on Cybertron and let them know the situation.

“On the way, find Vector Prime and the Mini-con emergency team and have them join Scattorshot and I. We’ll make a stand on the plains and – at the very least – clip a wing or three. Best case scenario, we’ll send them packing, then go dig up the Planet Key.”

Red Alert nodded, then transformed into an emergency SUV. He sped off into the base, sirens blaring a priority one alert. Magnus looked up at the moon, then turned to Scattorshot.

“How in the Pit did we not notice it was under our feet?” he asked.

\-----

Deep in the core, he waited.

He had decided the time was right, at last, for the warring factions to learn of his location. They had dutifully investigated the two false signals he had created, and had failed to penetrate the shielding around his true home. That meant they were both primitive in their ways and easy to manipulate – and therefore perfect for his purposes.

For the first time in centuries, he shifted. Only very slightly – an almost imperceptible movement of an arm – but enough, had anyone been watching, to give away his building sense of anticipation. He was about to have company, for the very first time since his arrival on Earth. The sort of company that might even bring humans along, allowing him to complete his studies.

The guardian of the Planet Key smiled. His patience was about to be rewarded.


	3. Chapter 3

Decepticon battle protocol demanded they come in low, under the level of the enemy’s radar, and fire their first volleys at near point-blank range. Starscream, naturally, flew in the line of radar sight, peppering the ground below with depleted uranium rounds.

The battle protocol could go to blazes, as far as he was concerned.

Deceiving the enemy was all well and good, when something could be gained from it. Which was clearly not the case this day. If that one-eyed freak could find the Planet Key from orbit, then the Autobots – who were stubbing their titanium toes right above the damn thing – could do the same. They would know the Decepticons were coming and would be ready. Surprise, deception… these were not strategies with which Starscream needed to concern himself. The mere sight of their lethal forms would send the Autobots scurrying for cover like the strutless weaklings they were.

Megatron would have howled with derision, but the aerospace commander didn’t care. While the Decepticon army had been split across the cosmos, wound up and launched in seek-and-destroy mode, their grand poobah had been out to lunch. Not one of the team commanders had heard from ol’ mallet head since he swiped the map from Vector Prime – and Starscream liked it that way. He’d become so used to a world without Megatron that he’d grown even more determined to live in such a world _permanently_.

Over the vorns, Starscream had watched carefully as the supposed Decepticon “ideal” shifted and changed. At first it was about being recognised, rewarded for one’s efforts. Then it was about power… then control… then the Matrix… then the Mini-cons… then Energon… and now the Planet Keys. Somewhere between the slaughter of his military unit and the siege of Iacon, Megatron had popped his processor and lost his way. The rest of the Decepticons had been dragged along on one mad crusade after another ever since.

No one else had seemed to notice this – or, if they had, they’d kept their synthesisers on mute for fear of reprisal. Starscream had never been silent about his views, nor his ambitions. Others regarded him, he knew, as reckless, even unintelligent, because of this. The truth, however, was that Starscream only voiced about one tenth of his intentions. He’d babble _just enough_ to keep up appearances, to lull Megatron into a false sense of familiarity and security. The things that went unsaid… the schemes that remained secret… they were the plans that would bring about Megatron’s undoing.

Permitting himself a slight, smug chuckle, Starscream turned back to matters at hand. Specifically: wiping out an Autobot infestation. He toggled a switch inside his cockpit, switching his internal communicator to external broadcast. Then he loosed three missiles and laughed as they streaked toward the ground, narrowly missing two dumbfounded, ground-hogging mechs below.

“Metal shavings, Autobot scum,” he howled as he turned for another pass. “If you’re lucky, that’s what I’ll leave for Prime to find!”

\-----

The walls of the medical bay shuddered. Bulkhead leaped from his bed. Instinctively, he knew they were being attacked – this was no rock fall, or a shifting of the Mini-con ship in which the Earthforce had made its base. No, they were under assault, likely because Ultra Magnus was too incompetent to repel an invasion force. Still, that’s what happened when you let a glorified Mini-con do a Wrecker’s job.

Keeping low, Bulkhead stalked toward the bay’s entrance. He heard voices… one outside the headquarters itself, amplified and shrill. Starscream. Two other voices were closer – much closer. Outside the double doors, in fact. The green-and-white warrior pressed his back to the wall and waited.

The doors hissed open, revealing two Transformers. Slugslinger walked in first, his forearms bristling with all manner of weapons and projectiles – including the Mini-con called Gunbarrel. Sharkticon came next. His waist-mounted rocket launchers swivelled from side-to-side, using individual tracking routines to sweep the room. Terradive, the Mini-con, was bolted onto the undersea warrior’s arm, giving him a nasty double-bladed melee weapon for close-quarters combat.

So it would be four on one. Bulkhead smiled tightly. He’d been waiting so long for this moment, he’d have been disappointed if it was easy.

He let Slugslinger walk further into the repair bay, intending to take Sharkticon out first. Sharkticon was an exceptional hunter but an ineffectual warrior… removing him early would give Bulkhead all the time in the world with his old, grinning “friend”.

Bulkhead slipped quietly behind his target and snagged his neck. The Decepticon gulped and tried to yell for help. His synthesiser choked off, Sharkticon instead tried to drive Terradive’s blades into Bulkhead’s midsection. The Autobot caught the weapon with his other hand, twisting savagely to wrench it loose.

At that moment, Slugslinger turned around. Bulkhead cursed loudly – he’d taken too long, and now the marksman had him in target lock. He watched as Slugslinger lifted his arsenal… took a bead on Bulkhead’s brow with Gunbarrel… then lowered his weapons again, a haunted look on his face.

“Bulkhead,” Slugslinger pleaded in a voice not his own. “You’re letting it happen again! Look – I mean, _really look_ – at who you’ve taken hostage there.”

He was about to argue – to demand to know what sort of game the Decepticon was playing – when the figure in his hands warped and shifted. One second, his optics were settled on Sharkticon. The next, they saw the gasping golden face of Tow-Line.

Horrified, Bulkhead released his grip. Tow-Line pitched to the floor, dropping the object he’d carried – a portable force field generator. Not a Mini-con in weapon mode.

“Just… trying… to help you out,” Tow-Line gurgled from his spot on the floor.

“Slugslinger” changed shape as well, pixellating and then resolving into Red Alert. The doctor wore a concerned look on his face plate, as did the Mini-con perched on his shoulder – his long-time nurse, Long Arm.

Bulkhead moved to apologise, but Red Alert waved him off. “No time. The base is under attack – you’re to remain here. And don’t argue – if I’d needed any proof you’re not up to operational status, I’d now have it.”

He winced at the stinging tone. Red Alert, however, had more to say. “You’re confined to this area until one of us comes and gets you, and this area will be shielded with a portable unit. No one comes in and, more importantly, you don’t come out. Clear?”

Bulkhead understood all too well. He was being institutionalised – a trylithium straightjacket would be the next step if he didn’t get his act together. “Crystal.”

Red Alert swept out of the room, changing his wrist-mounted surgical tool for a missile launcher as he went. Tow-Line set up the force field projector and walked out, refusing to meet Bulkhead’s apologetic optics. He held a remote control over his shoulder as he passed through the door and flicked a button, activating the unit. A yellow Energon shimmer crackled through the air and then was gone – an invisible barrier now separating Bulkhead from the rest of the world.

The last Wrecker slumped back on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. He’d been so sure he’d seen those Decepticons enter the room. Positive! Just like he’d been sure of the truck-bot and car-bot hours before, and of the light plane being Slugslinger, and…

Bulkhead shook his head, trying to fight off a sudden surge of panic. The other Autobots called him “Ol’ Fearless”, and followed him into battle without a moment’s hesitation. He’d received hundreds of commendations for bravery and been congratulated, again and again, on his quick thinking under fire.

But Red Alert said CINS was a long-term condition, brought on by extreme stress or an intensely traumatic incident. Often, it was linked to the death of close comrades or loved ones. That meant he’d been a sufferer since that night in the amphitheatre… the night he’d lay helpless while Scavenger and the others were slaughtered. That meant his entire battlefield career… his heroism… his fearlessness… was all based on delusions.

Bulkhead lay down, trying to ignore the sounds of war permeating the walls. How many mechs, he wondered, had he killed for no reason? How many moments of quick, decisive action were actually him jumping the gun, shooting first because of something he’d _thought_ he saw? How many times had he murdered, rather than acted in self-defence?

Unthinkingly, he pulled his long legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. Bulkhead lay there, very still, and tried not to think of anything.

\-----

Scattorshot was perfectly suited to long-range warfare. In vehicle mode, his turret-mounted missiles were uncannily accurate, able to impact in the dead centre of a moving target as far as 150 kilometres away. The little blue half-tank could knock the wings off a Decepticon aircraft before it even left the runway, given sufficient warning.

Once that same jet was on an attack vector, however, Scattorshot was nearly useless.

Ultra Magnus had long thought that part of the little Autobot’s neurosis – his range-based uselessness. The closer the enemy, the more difficult Scattorshot found it to fight, and the more he worried about being sidelined. Yet Magnus knew Scattorshot kept trying, kept pushing himself to improve no matter the situation. He had a Spark that would put most other warriors to shame, and Magnus did his best to encourage that flame into a blazing inferno of battle-readiness.

Sometimes, though, encouragement wasn’t enough… sometimes, you had to step in and take care of business.

Magnus sprinted across the plains, directly toward Scattorshot. The small robot was peering through his thick black visor – too far-sighted for one-to-one combat – and trying to shoot down Starscream and Slugslinger. The Decepticons were circling him, vulture-like, and easily dodging blasts from his twin-barrelled laser rifle. Scattorshot was keeping up a grim façade but Magnus knew his friend was crying inside, berating himself for his ineffectiveness.

Starscream must have grown tired of the game, for he switched vectors and pointed his nose directly at Scattorshot. From a few steps away, Magnus could hear the familiar click of the null beam cannon, sighting its target. In moments, Scattorshot would fall victim to the crackling pink energy blast and drop into stasis lock, truly useless for the first time in his military career.

The Earthforce commander wasn’t about to let that happen. Shoving Scattorshot to one side, Magnus lashed out with his right fist. Already committed to his power dive, Starscream could not pull out in time and crashed directly into the molybdenum digits. His nose spun sideways and he cart-wheeled to the left, rolling and crashing into the grassy turf.

Keeping his footing, Magnus threw a cruel backhand with his left fist, catching the sneaky Sharkticon full in the face. Metal crumpled with a satisfying noise and the hunter dropped like a stone. Above, Slugslinger broke off his attack run and retreated a short, safe distance.

Taking advantage of the lull, Magnus helped Scattorshot to his feet. The little Autobot was awestruck but ashen-faced, his embarrassment and self-recrimination obvious. “Dammit,” was all he could say. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” His body was almost vibrating with frustration and fear. “I shoulda been able to nail those turkeys… Ultra Magnus, I’m so sorry… I let you down again.”

Magnus silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Scattorshot, I’m always willing to back you up,” he smiled. “We rolling arsenals have to stick together, right?”

Scattorshot’s face split with a massive, appreciative grin. Magnus winked at his soldier and then transformed into vehicle mode, trundling out onto the plains.

He wished he felt as confident as he seemed but, the truth was, they were in a tactically onerous situation. Two punches did not a battle win and, as rattled as Starscream likely was, the aerospace commander would simply resort to standard Decepticon operating procedure – bombardment from above. He and his cronies would pound the base with high-altitude munitions until it crumbled – then all they’d have to do if sift the rubble and dig out the Planet Key.

There was precious little the Earthforce could do to stop them – they were horrifically short on flyers – save for forcing them to stay close to the ground. It took a full three seconds to compute, but Magnus had a plan that would do the job nicely.

He pulled up sharply, almost jack-knifing in the process. That, of course, was part of the plan. Putting his vehicle mode – a mobile battle platform – into an L-shaped configuration gave him the best coverage of the approaches from both the plains and the top of the mountains. Red Alert would have the reinforcements outside in a minute or two – all Ultra Magnus had to do was keep the ‘cons on the ground until the cavalry came running.

Magnus willed his arsenal to unfurl and lock into position, scores of tracking systems picking individual targets. Sharkticon and Starscream were in their robot modes, picking themselves up off the ground. Slugslinger was in the air but easily within range, while Scattorshot – thankfully – had pulled back to the base’s entrance. _Perfect_ , Magnus thought. _I love it when a plan comes together_.

He emptied his silos, and the sky above the Earthforce base turned red. Airburst napalm missiles climbed to a pre-determined height and gushed forth their explosive contents, streaking the sky with fire. The combustible molecules hung like clouds, forcing Slugslinger down and back toward the earth. The Decepticon had manoeuvrability enough to avoid injury, but not to weave his way through the closing net of flame. Magnus had created a fiery dome no jet could escape – no jet wanting to stay in one piece, anyway. Better still, it would obscure the battlefield from above… Magnus was all but certain Shockblast was somewhere in orbit, waiting to strike.

Starscream and Sharkticon, meanwhile, had barely seconds upright before they were knocked down again. Both were peppered with long, bullet-shaped tubes, each bearing a “warhead” carrying a small electro-magnetic pulse. A thousand of the projectiles would not take a Transformer offline – their shielding was far too sophisticated – but it would play havoc with their internals all the same. Most importantly, it would reduce Starscream’s null ray cannon to a glitching mess, just as Magnus wanted.

Behind him, he heard a triumphant roar of engines. Vector Prime shot overhead in vehicle mode, already moving to engage Slugslinger. The Mini-con emergency team – Firebot, Makeshift and Prowl – sped across to Magnus, ready to Powerlink. Scattorshot brought up the rear, laying down twin-barrelled cover fire as he ran.

Magnus transformed back to robot mode and signalled to the Mini-cons. The three blue-and-red vehicles changed into robots, then leaped into the air and transformed again. Firebot became a missile battery, Makeshift a six-barrelled chain-gun and Prowl a hand cannon. The first two weapons bolted into Magnus’ forearms, while the Earthforce commander hefted Prowl’s gun mode in his right hand.

“Spread out and take them down – maximum force,” he called over his communicator. “Keep them away from the base, the medical bay and especially from Bulkhead.”

Images flashed through his memory banks… a brief remembrance of a Mini-con being thrown to the ground, eons ago, by a disdainful military mech. Recollections of failed operations to correct the damage wrought by that encounter, of the permanent disability that followed. It was a wrong that had yet to be righted.

Despite his tactical approach to war, Magnus smiled. “Just leave Starscream for me,” he said.

\------

It didn’t take a genius to see the battle was going pretty badly for any mech wearing a purple badge.

To his left, Starscream was getting _pasted_ like never before. The arrogant twit hadn’t managed to recover from the EMP before Ultra Magnus waded in, throwing lefts and rights like they were going out of fashion. Sure, the big ‘bot fired the occasional missile or chain-gun blast to keep it unpredictable, but it was clear his engine was running on personal feelings. Whatever Starscream had done to deserve such a thrashing, he must have done it a _long_ time ago.

Above, Slugslinger had finally met his match. No doubt that would have torqued his transmission enough – worse, then, was the fact his equal was an ancient Transformer. Vector Prime, the archaic-looking spacecraft, clung to Slugslinger’s tail like a scraplet infection, popping off shots with a measured, determined pace. On closer observation, one could see how the crusty old mech did it – he was dropping in and out of real space, no doubt using his temporal powers to anticipate Slugslinger’s moves… or even see them before they happened.

Sharkticon growled. They’d been told Vector Prime couldn’t do that – couldn’t use his “Primus-given” powers in such instinctive ways. Obviously, something had changed during his time here on Earth. Then again, it could just be that their information sucked… Magnus wasn’t supposed to be carrying any airburst napalm in his weaponry racks, either. The aquatic hunter sighed loudly. He missed the days when they had reliable information, the era before “Decepticon military intelligence” became an oxymoron.

He was still lying on the ground, even though the EMP had worn off long ago. Sometimes, a successful hunt came down to the bait you used – and in a fiery field of Autobots, he couldn’t think of a more tempting morsel than a downed Decepticon. All he needed – all he ever needed – was a sucker, and one was about to present itself.

Scattorshot should have fired his gun – emptied his laser charge into the prone form at his feet. He didn’t, of course, because Autobots didn’t fight that way. It took Sharkticon all of eight seconds to nip up, disarm the little dweeb, steal his remote control for the Earthforce headquarters entrance and knock his prey cold.

He could have killed him, but that would draw suspicion. Sharkticon wanted to disappear, to fade out, for others to assume he’d run off. Mechs, on both sides of the conflict, thought him a coward. Rumour held he lived in eternal fear of the sole surviving Wrecker, that he stuck with the remnants of the Mayhem Attack Squad to ensure his safety.

The rumours were a pile of slag.

Sharkticon feared no one, especially Bulkhead. Once again, it was all a matter of providing the right bait to snare a sucker. Presenting himself as a timid, fearful morsel for a revenge-crazy Autobot would, sooner or later, draw out the last name on Sharkticon’s “missed kills” list. Or so he’d thought… despite the length of the war, it had yet to happen. Sharkticon had all but given up until hearing Magnus’ order on the battlefield, just moments ago.

_Spread out and take them down – maximum force. Keep them away from the base, the medical bay and especially from Bulkhead._

His target was somewhere inside the Earthforce base, possibly even injured. His friends and foes thought him a coward, meaning his sudden absence from the battle would need no explanation. Leaving the Autobot alive added to the illusion – his strike would be interpreted as an act of desperation, a blow landed out of fear and a desire to run away.

Sharkticon slunk toward the Earthforce base, triggering the remote control and slipping inside the partially opened doors. Engaging his stealth cloak, he crept through stone and metal passageways – invisible even in the strobing red alert lights lining the walls. His Mini-con slave, Terradive, was attached securely to his forearm, giving him two more blades with which to slice.

He hadn’t yet decided how Bulkhead would die. He figured he’d make it up as he went along.

\-----

Starscream couldn’t decide what was more galling – retreating, or having to retreat on foot.

He would have liked to say it was the fire-fog wreathing the skies that made a dignified aerial withdrawal impossible. Truthfully, it was the _utter kicking_ he’d taken from Ultra Magnus that had left him unable to fly. He had no idea what he’d done to anger that massive mech, but he kind of wished he could take it back.

Not that he’d ever mention it to anyone, of course. Thank the Matrix that one-eyed goon, Shockblast, wouldn’t have been able to see any of the battle. He didn’t need the aggravation.

He limped away, enduring the sting of the humiliation and the snap of the occasional laser-blast across his fleeing skid plate. Oh, they would pay – the laughing, joking Autobot Earthforce would pay for this indignity.

Slugslinger crashed into the earth, just a few hundred metres ahead. A giant plume of black smoke marked the path of his descent. Starscream sighed and changed direction, heading toward his downed subordinate. He’d have to dig the blasted fool out and help him back to their camp.

As he dropped to his knees and started clawing at the disgusting organic soil, Starscream made a vow. He swore to whatever cosmic forces were listening that he would not leave this stinking mudball until the Planet Key was in his hands – and every member of the Earthforce was a burned-out, ruined husk.

\-----

“It makes no sense, yet I refuse to question it.”

They were deep beneath the surface of the Earth, and pushing ever deeper. Magnus was in the lead, with Scattorshot and Vector Prime following behind. He was still Powerlinked to the Mini-con emergency team while Vector Prime had his partner, Safeguard, with him. They were about as well armed as any mech could be, given they were wandering into a totally unknown situation.

Magnus had not wanted to bring Vector Prime along. Despite his personal experiences with the Matrix and the more mythological aspects of the Transformer race, the Earthforce commander could not bring himself to trust “Primus’ guardian”. He agreed with Grimlock – Vector Prime’s arrival, so soon after Unicron’s defeat, was all too neat and too perfect to be coincidental. A mind as tactical as Magnus’ despised coincidence, for it was simply another name for bad luck.

“I refuse to question it because it is obviously the will of Primus,” Vector Prime continued. “He who made us decreed we were not ready to find the Planet Key until now, though directly atop it we may have been. I give thanks for His will, and ask for His strength and guidance as we search for the artefact.”

Magnus rolled his eyes. His vehicle mode headlights – located in his chest in robot mode – lit their path. It was a smooth, gently sloping tunnel, its walls so finely polished as to be almost glassy. Another blasted coincidence – why would there be a tunnel, right where they needed it? It meant, of course, the Planet Key was not lost but hidden, by someone or something requiring access to and egress from it. Magnus felt it was this being, not Primus, who had obscured the Key from their scans. Which meant it had wanted to remain hidden… and, worse, _chosen_ to reveal itself now.

 _Wonderful_ , he thought. _Out of one fire-fight and into another_.

He could feel Scattorshot tensing behind him. Dark tunnels and anxiety did not mix well. The mech was still nursing a slight sensorial concussion but had been certified fit for duty. Sharkticon, coward that he was, had knocked the half-tank cold as he scurried for safety. Though Scattorshot didn’t fully remember the altercation, Magnus was confident it had unfolded that way. Sharkticon was far from the hardiest of Decepticons.

A soft, blue glow filled the tunnel. Vector Prime’s chest plate – a large, concave circle lined with blue and red – was pulsing noiselessly but spectacularly. His wizened features twisted into a pleasant smile. “My Force Chip recognises the presence of another,” he explained. “We are indeed close to finding the Planet Key… I would say just metres.”

Magnus shone his lights ahead. “Then your chest must have x-ray vision,” he said. “The only place this tunnel leads is to a dead end.”

Vector Prime pushed past his comrades – no easy task in the narrow space – and drew his Energon sword. Reforged following the incident on the plains, the weapon once again glowed a brilliant blue – a perfect match for the light of its owner’s chest plate.

Magnus thought the older Transformer was going to attack the rock, cut it in two with the keen-edged blade. Instead, Vector Prime plunged the sword into the rock at their feet. Leaving one hand resting on its hilt, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head as if praying. The tunnel shook violently for a moment, then the wall swung open like a pair of massive granite doors.

Vector Prime rose to his feet and smiled wanly at them. “Faith,” he said happily, “removes all obstacles.”

He turned and walked into the darkness. Scattorshot sniffed. “Can’t say as I’m a believer yet, Big Bot.”

Magnus nodded. “Nor I,” he said, “but if Vector Prime is to be believed, then Primus is a god who likes to show off a little.”

“Show off?” Scattorshot chuckled. “Moving a rock is one thing. Buildin’ a whole planet fulla robots that can change into anythin’ the processor can imagine? _That’s_ showing off, y’ask me.”

They followed Vector Prime into what turned out to be a large, high-ceilinged chamber. The floor was even and devoid of stalagmites, though hundreds of stalactites dotted the roof. Magnus let out a low whistle. Until now, he’d credited the lack of natural features to the Mini-con ship – a crash landing of that magnitude was liable to flatten most ecosystems. Now, it seemed some areas had been cleared while others had been left alone… and that worried him.

“This way!’ Vector Prime called. “I’ve found something wonderful!” With quick, cautious steps, they closed the gap. He was facing them, waiting. His sword hung casually at his side, the light it created pointing downward. “My friends,” he said grandly, “our search is over. We did ask, and Primus did deliver. We needn’t have worried at any point… this world’s Planet Key was e’er in good hands.”

He raised his arm, and the sword’s blue glow illuminated a shape that was unmistakably a Transformer. Magnus and Scattorshot instinctively lifted their weapons and took aim, their crosshairs locking on a powerful-looking chassis.

The robot was stood about the same height as Vector Prime. It was coloured yellow and blue, with a winch-type assembly on one forearm and a quartet of long helicopter blades on the other. Two wings draped down, cloak-like, from its back, each containing two smaller propellers. Large missile launchers poked up from its shoulders, on either side of a regal blue and yellow head. The look on its face plate was benevolent, even peaceful. There as no mistaking that this Transformer was, every inch, a Prime.

Magnus and Scattorshot exchanged glances, then lowered their weapons.

“This is my old friend, Evac,” Vector Prime said proudly. “A more noble and stout-hearted Transformer you could not hope to find. It would seem he has been charged with the duty, the honour of guarding the Planet Key, and…”

“Uh, Vector Prime?” Scattorshot asked hesitantly. “Just checking but… well… has it occurred to you that your old friend Evac is, um, _dead_?”

Vector Prime looked up, seeing for the first time what the others had already noticed. In the middle of Evac’s forehead was a large, ugly-looking blaster hole. The edges of the wound were rusty with age, and it was clear the fatal shot had been fired many, many vorns earlier. The Transformer had been propped up, his joints welded into place, as a silent gatekeeper… or perhaps even a warning to those searching for the Planet Key. _Abandon hope all ye…_

“No,” Vector Prime said in disbelief. “That is simply impossible. Evac was the greatest of us, the most powerful and compassionate of the 13… if he is dead, then the agents of the Chaos Bringer are well advanced in their manipulations, and the Four Locks themselves may be in jeopardy!”

Magnus placed a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Calm down,” he said, “and tell me what’s going on. I thought you said you were the last of the 13 original Transformers. If that’s the case, then how can this Evac be a part of that group? And how do you know him, anyway, if you’ve been ‘touring the realities’ for millennia?”

Vector Prime slapped Magnus’ hand away. “Trouble me not with your questions!” he roared savagely. “I have not the time for them! Existence is at stake, and my duties lie far away from this place.” He slashed his sword through the air, seemingly cutting a rift in the fabric of space-time itself. The gash hovered in mid air, glowing brilliantly, as Vector Prime stepped through it and was gone. The rupture sealed behind him, and the chamber was dark again.

The Autobots stood in silence. “Well,” Scattorshot said, his voice shot through with nerves. “That was different, huh?”

Magnus didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped past the upright corpse of Evac and shone his lights deeper into the chamber. Halfway through his third sweep, they played on something metallic. Magnus widened the shafts of light, trying to give as clear a picture of this new discovery as he could.

Then his sump dropped in his chassis, and his optics telescoped in utter fear. His synthesiser crackled with static, struggling for words to express his terror. Scattorshot looked at his leader uncomprehendingly, then followed his gaze… and he, too, froze.

In the glare of the twin spotlights sat another Transformer. In its lap was a shield, and in the centre of the weapon was fastened the Planet Key – a blue disk with a gold edge, bearing an image of the sun rising over the Earth. The Transformer itself was midnight blue, with trims of brilliant gold and blood red bordering hundreds of razor-sharp edges. It sat cross-legged, almost contemplatively, with its optics switched off. Magnus prayed those optics would not activate, would not swivel toward him and Scattorshot… or they were doomed.

Darkness prevailed on the head of the blue Transformer… no glow emanated above its mask-like face plate. Magnus allowed himself a small sigh of relief – realising only too late that utter silence was their sole means of survival.

The tiny, almost inaudible noise cut through the still air of the chamber. The meditating Transformer shivered, then its optics flared wide into bloody crimson life. It took a breath, the sound utterly mechanical. The Transformer flexed large wings that spread from each of its shoulders and stood. A seam slit around three sides of its chest piece and the metalwork flipped forward, two barrel-like shapes flying from it. One unfurled into a quad-barrelled shoulder cannon and attached itself next to its master’s head. The other shifted into a twin-barrelled hand cannon, which the Transformer snatched up. It wielded the Key-activated shield on its other arm, rolled its shoulders and stood… waiting.

Magnus cursed under his breath. After vorns of speculation, one of Cybertron’s greatest riddles had been solved. The deadliest of the original Decepticons… the killer more remorseless than Megatron, more skilled than Thundercracker, more mechanical than Shockblast, more insane than Starscream… was _alive_.

And now, Soundwave was going to kill them all.


	4. Chapter 4

Ultra Magnus – the Autobot’s greatest warrior, a tactician without peer, the ever-reliable soldier and always-resolute field commander – was running for his life.

He sprinted out of the chamber and into the narrow, rocky tunnel, dragging Scattorshot behind him. The little mech’s terror was obvious – he tripped and stumbled as he tried to keep up with his commander. The creature that followed them, their murderous pursuer, had frightened him so badly that all sense had left his processor, all courage had been sapped from his blue and silver form.

Scattorshot was terrified, and he knew only the legends of Soundwave. Magnus was _beyond_ terrified, because he had faced Soundwave, optic-to-optic, and knew he was the deadliest of all Decepticons.

In a universe of Megatrons, Starscreams and Unicrons, that was sometimes hard to believe – yet Magnus knew it was true. Soundwave was the Decepticon that chilled the oil of every Autobot – that made even Optimus Prime fearful. It was not his abilities that made him a horror – though perfect hearing, massive strength and mind-reading were the stuff of any sane being’s nightmares.

Soundwave was the worst of the worst because he was a completist. He wanted access to every piece of information that passed him by – a thirst for knowledge bordering on addiction. The need to “know it all” had somehow transferred to his killer instinct. Soundwave would not leave a battle until every last enemy was dead. He refused to commit himself to a new objective until he was absolutely certain his current target was no more.

Whether on the ground or, worse, in the skies – where he rained bombs and ordnance down until the ground below was a mess of craters – Soundwave killed until there was nothing left to kill. Then, he would look for something else to murder.

Magnus’ logic chips refused to process the situation. Soundwave had died thousands of vorns ago, long before the Mini-cons had been rediscovered on Earth. He’d read the report himself. The Autobot SWAT Team – Nightbeat and Checkpoint – had raided an installation in Altihex, the deep-space research area of Cybertron. Megatron had been using the site to develop some sort of “warp gate”, a space-time doorway through which he could instantly transport troops and materials to distant battlefields.

Checkpoint’s report was precise and thorough – one installation wiped off the map, one Decepticon leader routed, one Decepticon communications expert atomised in the blast. But if that were the case, how did Soundwave survive – and, more importantly, how the frell did he end up miles beneath the surface of the Earth, in possession of the Planet Key and with a dead, ancient Transformer for company?

He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Soundwave level his double-barrelled laser rifle, aim his shoulder-mounted missile-launcher, and fire. The blasts streaked toward the dumbfounded Scattorshot. The little half-tank made a mewling noise in the back of his synthesiser as he stared, frozen, at the incoming firepower.

Magnus threw himself at Scattorshot, using his own chassis as a shield. The missile went wide, but the laser blasts tore into his blue-and-white hide. Two blazing, sizzling bolts of pure cable-shredding agony nailed him to the tunnel floor and filled his optics with static. He tried to move but found he could not, and he wondered if something vital had been severed. None of his systems would respond, and he could feel oil and Energon leaking out of his body.

“Ultra Magnus,” the Decepticon said, his voice devoid of tone, of inflection… of life. “One half of the Binary Spark.”

Magnus had no time to wonder what that meant. He heard the whine of his hand-held cannon, building intensity for the kill shot. Desperately, he willed himself to move – to stand up, even swing out a hand, _anything_ to buy him time to recover.

He lurched and toppled to one side. Scattorshot had pushed out from under him and transformed, aiming two long-range missiles at Soundwave’s chest. He fired, the missiles barely clearing their chambers before slamming into the Decepticon with horrific force. Plumes of flame lit the dim tunnel as Soundwave flew back toward the chamber, propelled by a contrail. Ordnance and robot vanished through the entrance a second before the payloads exploded – Scattorshot must have set timers on the warheads.

Shockwaves bounced and caromed them off the walls and ceilings. Both Magnus and Scattorshot came to rest, one hundred metres further toward the surface. As internal systems affected repairs, Magnus finally managed to struggle to his feet. He hobbled over to Scattorshot, who was lying on his roof. The Earthforce commander overturned his friend, who transformed back to robot mode.

“Thanks,” Magnus breathed.

Scattorshot brushed dust and debris from his chest plate and smiled goofily. “We rolling arsenals have to stick together, right?”

Magnus slapped him fondly on the back, almost knocking him over. As Scattorshot righted himself, they both heard a sound coming from within the clouds of dust. It was the sound of metal scraping on rock… of _edged_ metal scraping on rock.

As the dust parted, Magnus and Scattorshot winced. Soundwave stood before them.

He had been hit, at close range, with two missiles and was totally unaffected – almost. Magnus noticed his golden chest piece had warped slightly, as if it had split from the rest of his torso on three sides. With a start, he realised what that meant.

“Scattorshot!” he cried, but it was too late. Soundwave’s chest panel flipped down and a barrel-shaped object – the same as his blaster and shoulder-cannon – dropped out. It split open as it fell, its smooth sides contorting into a savage collection of wings, beak and weaponry. In one swift motion, barrel became killer robotic condor.

“Laserbeak, eject,” Soundwave intoned. “Operation: pest control.”

The mechanical predator squawked once then dived at Scattorshot, jagged talons flashing in the firelight.

\-----

Starscream cradled the small tube in his hand and winced. _This_ , he said to himself glumly, _is going to hurt_.

He thumbed a button halfway along the length of the tube. A thin drill bit extended from one end and hummed slightly. Starscream pointed the steel protrusion down and jammed it into an open wound on his leg.

The pain was indescribable – worse, in some ways, than the beating Ultra Magnus had dished out – and it took all of his will to stop from screaming. Having Slugslinger nearby helped… his ego refused to let him show weakness in front of the very mech angling for his role as aerospace commander.

The drill bit deep into him. Locking the bearings in his jaw, Starscream thumbed the button again and braced for the rush. It ran through his entire body like a thousand knives cutting away circuitry, honing his injured form into something better.

It was an injection of deutronium – the explosive yet power-enhancing mineral from the Kalis – laced with Energon.

To a Transformer, deutronium was a steroid and narcotic. It increased hydraulic function one hundred per cent. Mixing it with Energon turned it into a potent medicine – a traditional Decepticon field cure for serious battle injuries.

 _When a CR chamber’s too far away, deutronium often saves the day_ he quipped bitterly to himself.

Starscream pulled the injector from his leg, watching in quiet anticipation as the wound closed over. His metallic skin did not fuse together, but the limb was operational. His other injuries “scabbed over” in the same manner, thanks to the deutronium. He still required a bout of CR, but now he’d be able to slaughter a few Autobots first.

To his side, Slugslinger rose and grinned. He, too, had taken his “deut-dose” and was ready for round two. Starscream returned the grin and crushed the injector in his first.

“Payback’s a ‘bot,” he snarled as they took to the air.

\-----

Sharkticon watched with interest.

His odious smell, the stench left in his wake, was legendary – and as false as his supposed cowardice. How would a hunter bag a kill if he could only move upwind of his prey? Foolishness. The smell eked out of small vents that were secreted into various spots on his armour. Which, of course, meant he could turn it off any time he liked.

Even his fellow Decepticons didn’t know that one. Sharkticon felt it best to keep his attributes from his allies, ready for the day one became his next target.

With his stealth cloak on and his stench-makers off, he was invisible to the two panicked Autobots running around the communications centre. He could have picked them off at any time – dropped them with two shots and fled, totally unseen – but he was fascinated by their fear. Fascinated, and dying to know what had terrified them so.

“The transmission was garbled, that’s all there is to it,” Tow-Line said. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Magnus did _not_ say what we thought he said.”

“He said it was Soundwave,” Red Alert replied. He was equally frightened but dealing with it in a no-nonsense manner. “Soundwave, the Decepticon communicator. He’s alive, here on Earth, and in possession of the Planet Key. Magnus ordered us to stay here, then the transmission cut out.” He turned to Tow-Line. “He couldn’t have been clearer.”

The blue-and-white Autobot dropped his head. “I know,” he sighed, “but this war is dangerous enough without putting Soundwave back into the mix.”

Sharkticon moved around the edge of the room, keeping a watchful optic on his ignorant “friends”. He was sure of his technological superiority, but only an idiot would rely on it. He recognised markings above a doorway – “medical bay”. He’d found his target!

As he slipped out of the communications centre, he heard Tow-Line open a channel to Iacon. Calling for reinforcements, no doubt. Sharkticon grinned under his featureless face plate. If Soundwave really was down there, then things were looking decidedly up for the Decepticon cause. And whichever ‘bot first reached out to “Ol’ Armageddon” was going to curry some serious favours with Megatron.

It’d be the perfect cap-off to a perfect day. Murder Bulkhead, welcome back old acquaintances and nab the Planet Key. Sharkticon almost felt like whistling.

\-----

Scattorshot fell to the ground, oil leaking from dozens of razor-thin cuts. His optics dimmed from fluid loss and his limbs jerked spastically. Laserbeak took one more pass – his serrated, diamond-hard beak gouging a chunk of metal from the Autobot’s back – then looped back and perched on his master’s wingtip.

Magnus remembered Laserbeak all too well. The insipid little mech was supposedly Megatron’s chief interrogator but was more often used as a spy. He’d been good at his job despite his cowardice – more Autobots could describe Laser beak’s retreating skid plate than could picture his face. The bird only fought when he had to, or when his target had been weakened… the reason for his partnership with Soundwave. The blue-silver-and-gold giant lay waste to the battlefield, while his little helper picked off any survivors.

Laserbeak squawked twice, obviously pleased with his work. Soundwave silenced him with a raised finger and stooped down to Magnus. Thought the Autobot was many times his weight, Soundwave lifted him as if he were a protoform. Gently, he wrapped the fingers of one hand around Magnus’ steel neck – then _squeezed_.

“Autobots,” he sneered. “So foolish, so blind.”

Static crawled across Magnus’ visual range. The pressure in his neck was intense, and he could feel delicate receptors grinding into a fine paste.

“With all that I am and all that I know – and I _know all_ – still I cannot make sense of your species. To so blindly follow the desires of the Creator, even when you believe him to be but myth, is pathetic. To defend even a single life-form, even at the cost of your own existence, is foolish. And to face me – when I _know all_ – is fatal.”

 _You never used to talk this much_ , Magnus thought grimly.

Desperate, he fell back on a very old trick. He gripped Soundwave’s hand with both of his own and pulled down, managing to get his feet back on the ground. As he let go, he took two quick steps backward… all while leaving his neck in Soundwave’s grasp.

Long ago, his original body – that of the Mini-con, Roll Out – had fused with the Overload battle suit to form the chest and head of Ultra Magnus. Vorns later, he’d learned how to separate into his component pieces once again… and found the battle suit responded to his mental commands. It did so now – pushing past his pain, Magnus willed his decapitated body to fire its weapons.

The Decepticon, however, was faster. He fired so quickly, so accurately, on the headless battle suit that it was as if he’d been _expecting_ the assault. The blue-and-black form spun on its heels and fell to the floor, its three armaments clattering loose from their Powerlink ports.

Soundwave laughed. “How quickly they forget,” he said. “I _know all_ , Ultra Magnus. Though I have been far away, I watched as you learned that trick, listened as you perfected it, observed as you used it, oh so sparingly, in combat. Nothing escapes me… nothing and no one.”

“Or so… you’d like to think,” Magnus gasped.

The three weapons transformed. Makeshift, Prowl and Firebot – the Mini-con emergency team – went into action. In his vehicle mode, Firebot coated the already-slick floors with flame-retardant foam. Prowl, meanwhile, lifted Makeshift onto his shoulders. The aerial Mini-con activated his powerful propeller hands. Twin gusts of pressurised air slammed into the surprised Soundwave, forcing him to slacken his grip just enough.

Magnus twisted and freed himself, transforming to Mini-con mode as he fell. Landing solidly, he willed the battle suit’s feet to flip around in a partial transformation. The black steel changed into twin mortar launchers and fired – not at Soundwave, but at the rocks above his head. The ceiling caved onto the Decepticon and his bird-brained accomplice, combining with the slippery foam to knock them off-balance and back down the tunnel.

They slid but a few hundred metres, but it was enough. Magnus transformed and reunited with the rest of his body, scooping Scattorshot and the Mini-cons into his arms. He’d be dead without the emergency team – and if he’d not remembered Soundwave’s prejudices. The communicator may have claimed to know everything, but he’d never paid attention to the “lowly” Mini-cons. He was the only Decepticon to have refused a Mini-con “slave”, Magnus knew, which left him ignorant of and open to teamed attacks.

He ran for the communications centre as fast as his injured legs would carry him. Soundwave would not be stopped for long – the Autobots’ only chance of survival was teamwork… and a _lot_ of heavy ordnance.

\-----

“By the Matrix!”

Hearing his leader’s cry, Nightbeat ran into the room. Optimus Prime was sitting at a polished console and staring at a view screen. Nightbeat could see Tow-Line’s image on the small display – his face was fraught with concern and fear.

“Soundwave,” Optimus said by way of explanation. “The Earthforce found the Planet Key hidden beneath the crashed Mini-con ship. It’s been there all this time – along with its murdered guardian – but in the hands of Soundwave.”

Nightbeat shook his head. “I watched him get blown to atoms…” he paused. “Or did I just see him get _blown across the cosmos_ by Megatron’s device?”

Optimus pounded a fist on the console. “Contact Omega Supreme. Have him meet me, the Dinobots and every available…”

Wait a second, Prime,” Nightbeat interrupted. “Did you say the guardian of the Key had been murdered?”

“What of it?”

The Autobot detective’s unique processor spun, each segmented half pondering a different side of the unexpected puzzle. “Out of the way!” he yelled suddenly, pushing Optimus to one side. “Tow-Line, I need you to listen to me _very carefully_.”

\-----

Bulkhead shivered and uncurled. He’d been lying there, folded up like a craven coward, far longer than he’d have liked. Bulkhead the fearless warrior, Bulkhead the sole survivor… hah! Bulkhead the mental patient was more like it.

He was glitching like crazy, seeing Decepticons where there were none and seeing enemies where there were only friends. Combat Induced Neural Surge was to blame, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to accept. No, now that he knew what was wrong with him, and how it manifested, he was sure he could get a handle on it and…

… and Sharkticon was standing on the other side of the force field, rapping on it with spiked knuckles.

Bulkhead blinked. He pressed his fingers into his optics to degauss them. Still no change – “Sharkticon” didn’t pixellate and resolve into Tow-Line, like he’d done the last time. The condition must have been worsening or something. Still, Bulkhead fell back on his knowledge of reality. There was no way Sharkticon could be inside the Earthforce base. Entry required a coded remote control…

… like the one dangling from the Decepticon’s outstretched fingers.

Of course, that just proved “Sharkticon” was really one of the Autobots, his identity warped by CINS. Bulkhead was seeing things again, that was all – there was no way a Decepticon could have gotten hold of an entry remote, especially not _that_ one, which looked like Scattorshot’s. The little mech was clumsy and unreliable, sure, but even he wouldn’t…

“Sharkticon” paced around the perimeter of the force field, came to a computer terminal and tapped on it. Bulkhead watched the screen – he was calling up diagnostic records – and breathed easy. His visitor was actually Red Alert – who had seemed to be Slugslinger earlier – and the CINS was changing gears on him! Only Red Alert would be so kind, so conscientious, as to check on him in the middle of a battle – especially after the goofball stunt he’d pulled earlier.

Bulkhead’s file came onto the screen, and the “Decepticon” studied it for a long moment. He ran a clawed finger along the smooth surface, underlining the words as his optics scanned left to right. Suddenly, he laughed – and the sound was bitter, cruel and completely unlike Red Alert. He turned to look at Bulkhead and his dim eyes suddenly shone brightly, _maliciously_.

“Sharkticon” started whistling. It was a lilting, haunting tune. Bulkhead jumped – his delusions had never come with sound before. Using his internal modem, he dialled into the base’s data tracks, accessed some of the records the Mini-con, Jolt, kept on Earth culture. It took less than a second to match the whistle. _Time… is on my side, yes it is_ , went the tune.

Bulkhead started to panic.

\-----

Magnus loped into the communications room as another explosion rocked the base – the force coming not from the tunnel behind him, but from beyond the walls. He fell to one side and dropped Scattorshot. The little Autobot landed on his head, the force of the sudden impact jolting him back to consciousness. “Wha’happen?” he asked dreamily, fluids still leaking from his wounds. “Wherahmaye?”

Red Alert moved straight over to him, expert hands already dressing wounds. Magnus spared a moment to make sure the Mini-cons had made it safely back, then barked at Tow-Line. “What in the Pit is going on out there?”

“Starscream’s back,” Tow-Line yelled. “He and Slugslinger are lighting up the sky out there, trying to crack the forward blast doors. The fire fog’s still in the air and keeping them low, but that’s doing little to downsize the artillery they’re using.” He smiled wryly. “I think you torqued him off, Big Bot.”

Magnus felt like grinning, but suppressed it – the situation was too dire for flippancy. “What about reinforcements from Iacon? Soundwave is one thing, but Soundwave with a Planet Key is…”

“Tow-Line!” someone interrupted. The voice came from a view screen. “I need you to listen to me _very carefully_.”

It was Nightbeat, calling from Cybertron. Magnus could see his brother, Optimus Prime, standing to one side of the image with a puzzled look on his face plate. The detective’s silver features were almost bulging with urgency. “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense!” he cried. “The Planet Key can’t work if its guardian is dead!”

Magnus elbowed Tow-Line aside – he’d apologise later. “Explain yourself, soldier.”

“The Planet Keys,” Nightbeat offered, “are linked to the life force of their user. My team and I found that out on Gigalonia – this real loose screw called Blender was fixing to detonate the planet to give his local artefact a jump-start. He’d murdered the Key’s owner – a mech named Metroplex – not realising the Key was useless without his life force!”

The Earthforce commander nodded. “Then if Soundwave’s using this world’s Planet Key to amp his abilities…”

“… your friendly neighbourhood guardian is online and operational,” Nightbeat concluded.

“Red Alert,” Magnus bellowed, “get Scattorshot patched up and the both of you get outside. I want those ‘con flyers taken down… we don’t need any more problems than we already have.” He levelled a finger at Tow-Line. “Get the portable force field projector. Have it aimed and ready to seal off all access to that tunnel. If I’m not back in ten minutes… seal me in as well. Red Alert will assume command if necessary.”

“But…” Tow-Line began.

Magnus ignored him and transformed, his body shifting once again into a mighty blue and white tractor-trailer. His engines thrummed into life and his headlights flared a brilliant yellow, piercing the gloom of the deathly tunnel. He threw himself into gear.

\-----

Sharkticon shimmered out of sight, and Bulkhead relaxed. He was far from happy that his delusions had taken on another form – that they no longer needed a real mech to twist – but at least he was sure he was just crazy again. He could handle madness if he was alone in the asylum, so to speak.

The med bay doors opened and Tow-Line ran in. The journalist dropped to one knee next to the force field projector and began twisting dials, powering the device down. Over his shoulder… Sharkticon flickered into view, looked at Bulkhead and _winked_.

“What are you doing?” Bulkhead demanded, fear ripping through his circuitry. Sharkticon had raised one finger in front of his face plate, making a _shh_ gesture.

“Magnus needs this aimed down the tunnel,” Tow-Line snapped, obviously not in the mood for conversation. “We have a situation out there.”

The force field flickered and dropped. Sharkticon vanished into thin air once more. “We have a situation _in here_!,” Bulkhead yelled, springing forward and grabbing at the device. “You can’t take that – I need it!”

Tow-Line shifted his grip. “For Matrix’s sake, Bulkhead!” he yelled. “Let go of the damn thing. Our lives could depend on it!”

“ _My_ life already does!” Bulkhead snapped back.

The Autobots grappled for a moment, and Bulkhead realised he had no choice. One of his long, powerful legs rocketed up and out, catching Tow-Line in the chest. The smaller Autobot flew out of the room, dropping the device, and slammed head-first into the now-closed med bay doors. His optics went dim and he dropped offline.

Bulkhead fumbled with the force field projector, recreating his comfort zone. Fighting for breath, he stepped back from the shimmering barrier and looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Sharkticon.

Was he still there? Had he even _been_ there?

He took a few more steps back… and slammed bodily into another mech. He turned, coming face-to-face with Sharkticon. The Decepticon was wore a bladed weapon on one arm, and was tapping it gently with his other hand.

“Well, hello there,” he growled.

\-----

He was far from the fastest Autobot – lack of speed was his only physical weakness – but Ultra Magnus was among the heaviest. The tunnel was downhill all the way, making gravity his new best friend. He gunned his engine and accelerated to maximum speed, red-lining all of his gauges and dials.

Soundwave loomed up ahead, his edged metalwork gleaming in the headlights’ glare. Magnus didn’t stop, didn’t even allow himself to question his course of action. He slammed into the vicious Decepticon, his weight and momentum turning him into a land bullet. With a sickening crunch, Soundwave was thrown to one side and Magnus thundered on.

The smoke from Scattorshot’s missiles was still thick in the tunnel but Magnus ignored it, concentrating on nothing but his goal. He roared into the cavern and transformed, flipping up into mid air and into robot mode. His injured leg gave way as he landed and for a moment he slipped. Righting himself, Magnus scanned the gloom for the guardian of the Planet Key.

Evac was in the same spot, unaffected by the carnage. Magnus limped over to the allegedly ancient Transformer and studied the rusted blast-hole in his forehead. It certainly looked fatal – like a one-shot kill, likely from an unexpected source – but Nightbeat had been certain, too.

“Wake up, soldier!” Magnus yelled into Evac’s face.

The deathly expression did not change. Nor did Magnus’ anger. “If you think you’re the first mech to have failed in your duty… well, given your age, you’re probably right! But things have changed in the last few vorns. Autobots don’t give up, they never surrender, and they don’t let past mistakes cloud the present! Most of all, they don’t let their self-doubt get in the way of their mission!”

He thought he saw a mechanical muscle twinge. “You brought the Planet Key here, Evac, endangering thousands of life forms with a single decision!” Magnus bellowed. “Now it’s time for you to face up to your responsibility, finish what you started and help us defeat Soundwave before he kills _everything_!”

Something exploded in his mid section, and Magnus dropped to his knees. Evac’s fist pulled back, the sucker punch delivered with frightful force. The gold and blue chassis vibrated in place, the welds sloughing off and forming liquid pools on the cavern floor. The blaster hole in his forehead closed over with a slight sucking noise, and his noble features contorted in rage.

Evac’s massive rotor blades swept into life and began revolving, spinning like four executioner’s axes. They picked up speed, clearing the smoke from the cavern and tearing strips of paint from Magnus’ armour. Their force was incredible.

“Little Transformer,” Evac boomed, his voice thick like that of the long-deceased High Councillors, “You go too far.” Then he lowered the spinning blades, bringing them closer and closer to the injured Earthforce commander.


	5. Chapter 5

Scattorshot waved a hand in front of his far-sighted optics. The digits registered, as expected, as a blurry mess of pixels, which meant he was about as fixed as he was ever going to be.

He sighed deeply. “Grimlock’s throat an’ my eyeballs,” he snorted, falling back on Earth vernacular. “Just two more marvels o’ science that’re beyond Autobot medicine.”

He flashed a goofy grin at Red Alert, but the doctor wasn’t listening. He stood rigidly at the entrance to the Planet Key tunnel, weapons drawn. He’d traded his laser scalpel for a wrist-mounted blaster and Powerlinked to his long-time Mini-con assistant, Long Arm. Bonding to the black-and-orange crane gave Red Alert access to a powerful shoulder-mounted flechette cannon, with which he was deadly accurate.

Scattorshot knew Red Alert had once been the fiercest of Autobot warriors, a rough-n-tumble mech who lead every charge with his head. His daring was such he’d become one of the legendary inner circle – along with Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Grimlock and Silverstreak. Then he’d suffered a Spark-threatening injury that caused him to reassess his life, and he turned to medicine. Scattorshot sometimes wondered whether Red Alert was just itching to cut loose on the battlefield again.

“Tow-Line’s not back,” Red Alert said. “We can therefore assume something’s happened to him – Bulkhead, likely – and we therefore will not have access to a force field.”

Scattorshot gulped. He was no coward, but he’d already watched Soundwave take two air-to-air missiles in the chest plate. “Having a barrier ‘tween us an’ him was sorta appealin’,” he drawled, trying to disguise his nervousness. “An’ ain’t we supposed ta be out the front shootin’ down Starscream and his flunky, anyway?”

“This takes priority,” Red Alert said. “The walls are thick enough to bar Starscream until we can secure the Planet Key… with or without Ultra Magnus.”

A sparkle of reflected light shone in the darkness of the tunnel. “Primus, if you’re real,” Scattorshot whispered, raising his rifle, “Please let that be Ultra Magnus and not…”

Soundwave exploded into the communications room, shoulder cannon firing. Red Alert somehow managed to dodge the opening salvo and fall back, firing as he leaped over exploding consoles and shattered arrays. Scattorshot crouched low and aimed for Soundwave’s legs. The red laser splashed harmlessly off the blue and silver steel.

Laserbeak hurtled toward him, and Scattorshot flattened against the floor. Trying to stay calm, he peered through his fuzzy optics and tried to pick out some details of his avian attacker. He engaged the targeting system for his missiles and narrowed its range to 10 metres. It was a sensible way of addressing his visual problems but it came with a nasty catch – it meant his missiles were primed and ready to detonate. By looking through his targeting system, Scattorshot became a walking bomb… one stray ricochet would set off the powerful ordnance and take all of them with it. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Scattorshot fed all the data received by the system directly into his optics, giving him a wire-frame view of the room. There was Red Alert, throwing himself bodily at Soundwave. There was the giant Decepticon, flinging the doctor away as if he were weightless. And there, to Scattorshot’s right, was Laserbeak – now no more than a swiftly moving outline of neon green on black. He was less frightening that way.

Laserbeak was shaped like an Earth bird of prey, down to having metallic tail “plumage” and “feathered” ends to his wings. He doubted the interrogator had looked like that back on Cybertron – likely a side-effect of his mater’s exposure to the Earth Planet Key or something. In any event, he might just have found the bird brain’s weakness.

Scattorshot drew a bead, ducked under a second pass and fired. Pessimistic to the last he expected it to do nothing, to bounce off bird as it had master. Instead, the ruby beams sliced through the dark metal. The bird squawked, fell and slammed head first into a spluttering console. Scattorshot fired twice more for good measure, detonating the console and Laserbeak with it. The metal bird spiralled up and out of the explosion, transforming back to barrel mode in mid-air. It landed with a thunk, deactivated.

“One down, one t’go!” the little Autobot whooped triumphantly. Then he looked up… into the front grille of an orange and white SUV.

“Jump!” Red Alert commanded. Scattorshot complied, snatching hold of the vehicle’s roof-mounted lights as he tumbled. He held on for dear life as the four-wheel drive skidded and bounced out of Earthforce base. A glance to his side confirmed his fears – Long Arm lay next to him with a large wound in his chest.

“There isn’t any way,” Red Alert yelled, “that Prime and the reinforcements will make it here on time. We’re unable to fight Soundwave on our own – so we need to be outside, where we can call on some help.”

Scattorshot shook his head. “Aw no,” he sighed. “You’re not seriously gonna ask the Decepticons to fight one o’ their own, are ya?”

“Not exactly,” Red Alert replied. For a second, Scattorshot could have sworn the doctor was smiling.

\-----

He loosed a volley of missiles from his underbelly as he pulled up, savouring the sound of the explosions below. “Come out, Autobot weaklings!’ Starscream crowed, riding the deutronium rush. “Come on out and die!”

He didn’t expect a response. The Autobots were known for their stubborn refusal to give ground in a fight – the siege of Iacon had, after all, gone on for millions of years. He was stunned to see the massive blast doors part and two Autobots shoot out as if Unicron itself was chasing them. Red Alert was in his vehicle mode with a smaller mech – Scattergun, or something like that – clinging to his roof.

Starscream transformed. A look of smug satisfaction crossed his face as he floated gently to ground level. He made sure not to touch the filthy organic soil but instead hovered _just_ above it, indicating his superiority.

“Come to negotiate the terms of your surrender, doctor?” he sniggered. “I might be willing to let you live if you hand over the Planet Key.”

Red Alert transformed and smiled – the expression so unexpected it made Starscream uneasy. “You’re quite welcome to the Planet Key, Starscream,” he said confidently. “All you have to do is take it.”

There was a massive explosion. Starscream ducked as one of the blast doors sailed past him. Looking up, he laid optics on the last mech he ever expected to see, Soundwave, storming toward them in the foulest of moods. In the centre of his shield was the Planet Key, glowing with brilliant blue power.

“All yours, Decepticon,” Red Alert quipped as he and his smaller friend ran for cover.

“ _Great_ ,” Starscream said sourly. He and Soundwave had never been on the best of terms. They were similar in some ways – the blackmailer and the schemer – but different in one essential area. Soundwave was utterly loyal to Megatron, which made him one of Starscream’s primary obstacles. He’d been delighted when the big lug had vanished in that explosion.

Starscream gulped. He shouldn’t have been thinking any of this… not when Soundwave could read minds at a hundred paces.

“Soundwave!” he said, throwing his arms wide in welcome. “My old friend and comrade! How _wonderful_ to see you operational! I thought we’d lost you. In fact, I used to quite often say to Megatron that…”

The stoic giant silenced him with an upraised finger. “Starscream,” he intoned. “Deceiver. Betrayer. Liar and manipulator. Useful skills, but you have not employed them for the glory of our lord Megatron.” He paused, and Starscream could almost feel the radio waves sifting through his processor. “You seek the Planet Key for yourself, not for the Decepticons – there is no reason for you to live.”

His shots were unerringly accurate. The first clipped Starscream’s left wing, the second ploughed through his recently repaired leg. Starscream howled and dropped to the ground. He fired his missile launcher, but the blast went wide.

“Slugslinger!” he yelled. “Soundwave has gone rogue – take him down!”

For all he despised Slugslinger, the gunner was quick to follow orders. He swung to attack while Starscream limped for cover. He dove behind the same rocky outcrop as the Autobots. “Is this seat taken?” he asked sarcastically.

The trio peered over the rock, in time to see Slugslinger’s fuel tanks explode. Two more of Soundwave’s missiles slammed into the unfortunate Decepticon jet who ploughed, for the second time, into the ground. Soundwave turned to look at them.

Starscream glared at Red Alert. “I really, _really_ hate you,” he sneered.

\-----

“I’ve had _just_ about enough of mysterious, ancient Transformers for one day!”

As one rotor blade whipped past his head, Ultra Magnus reached out with both hands. He slapped his palms together with a thunderous clang of metal, catching the next blade between them. The razor-sharp blade sliced into him but he refused to yield, pitting his hydraulic muscles against the rotation of Evac’s weapon.

It was, in the end, no contest. Magnus’ sheer strength prevailed and the rotor stopped. Its momentum was transferred back down its drive shaft, the torque lifting Evac from the ground and throwing him into Magnus. The older Autobot bounced off of the Earthforce commander’s solid armour, his weapon breaking loose from his arm at the same time. He slumped to the ground and watched, optics wide, as Magnus opened his shoulder-mounted weapons pods and took aim.

“Do your worst, villain,” Evac said proudly. “You’ll not have the satisfaction of seeing me plead for my Spark.”

Magnus shook his head. “You’ve got your factions mixed up,” he said.

“Unlikely. You wear the insignia of the metal beasts – the ones who came to steal the Blue Key and give it to their master, the false Prime!”

“Metal beasts? False Prime?” Magnus’ processor was reeling, yet he kept his weapons on target. “Sounds like you have a story to tell, soldier.”

Evac glanced ruefully at the deadly pods, then nodded. “I came to this world many millions of vorns ago, at the request of my leader, to hide and guard the Blue Key,” he said quietly. “My orders were to remain out of sight, to avoid local life forms, and yet I could not. This planet is so… amazing, so… beautiful and unique and different! On Cybertron, the pursuit of knowledge was my reason for operating. Here was a new world, rife with possibilities… I could not turn a blind optic to it.”

Evac dropped his head. “So many and varied were my discoveries, and I longed to share them with another – but I was among the last of the 13, and my brothers and sisters were far from me. Then he came. Soundwave. He was the innocent victim of a cruel and senseless war, flung from Cybertron in circumstances beyond his control.”

Magnus raised an eyebrow plate, but said nothing.

“My loneliness was at an end. He understood – knew what it was to thirst for knowledge – and we roamed this world together. We soared through the skies and saw _everything_ , witnessed life and evolution and change, recording it all. So it would have continued, if not for the metal beasts.

“They came in a star ship, and Soundwave knew them at once. They wore the red badge of the fake Prime, he said – a pretender who had stolen the rank rightfully belonging to Megatron. He showed me data tracks of atrocities committed by this ‘Optimus Prime’ and I knew, instantly, the villains had to be stopped.

“I confronted them while they wore their horrific beast modes – cruel parodies of the wonderful creatures of this world – and imprisoned them in a tar pit. Though one of their stray blasts must have connected, knocking me offline.”

Magnus understood. Grimlock and Swoop had once commandeered a small vessel and, against Prime’s orders, set off to find the Mini-cons who had fled Cybertron. Millions of vorns later, as the war began on Earth, Magnus helped Prime dig the Dinobots out of an ancient tar pit – into which they’d been thrown, Grimlock said, by “some giant mech”.

Soundwave had played Evac for a fool. He’d warped the ancient warrior’s knowledge of Cybertron, of the factions, of the civil war. He’d set him against those who should have been his allies, and then shot him in the face. Most infuriatingly, Evac still believed Soundwave was his ally, and blamed his injury on the Dinobots!

But something was still unclear – the sequence of events was right, but the passage of time was not. “Evac,” Magnus said gently, “are you aware of what cycle it is? Of how much time has elapsed since that battle?”

The guardian snorted. “Obviously enough for you to have come running to save your horrific allies, rude one,” he snapped. “My chronometer shows…” his voice trailed off. “No,” he said quietly. “That cannot be. The battle, my injury… it was but hours ago…”

Magnus’ Spark went out to him. “Evac, you’ve been deceived.”

\-----

“So does anyone have any bright ideas?”

Starscream was far from pleased. Their rocky cover had lasted just long enough to form an impromptu alliance and to synch communicators to the same frequency. It galled him to work with the enemy, but self-preservation always won out over factionalism.

“Come on, speak up – you Autobot losers are supposed to be good at this sort of thing! The valiant do-or-die battle against overwhelming odds… it’s your forte, right?”

“Just shut up, willya?” Scattorshot replied. “It’s hard enough to stay alive without you prattlin’ on!” He was in vehicle mode, weaving through Soundwave’s barrage. “Besides, you’re the one with rank here, you want t’get technical ‘bout it!”

Red Alert ran across to Starscream, laying down cover fire from his wrist blaster. “He’s got a point, Decepticon,” he snapped. “I’ve heard you’re set on taking the reigns from Megatron. Wouldn’t this be a good time to practice?”

Starscream gave him a most unpleasant stare. “Don’t presume to tell me what to do, you medical moron!” he spat. “I’m the main target here! You bozos should be doing your best to save me from mortal peril!”

“All the dirty jobs,” Scattorshot drawled, pulling in alongside them. “Why don’t ya just zap him with yer null ray or somethin’? That’d stop him in his tracks no matter how powerful he’s become, right?”

The Decepticon ducked a low-flying rocket. “I’d be happy to, had your bruiser of a leader not crushed the null ray when he attacked me earlier!” He waved the broken weapon at them. Its transparent purple barrel was spider-webbed with cracks. “One shot would drop that overbearing tin can like a bad habit, but I don’t see either of you carrying a spare.”

Red Alert pushed him backwards and away from a laser blast. “He’s found our range again,” he said, transforming into vehicle mode. “Scatter!”

The Autobots drove off in different directions. Unable to even hover, Starscream hobbled across the plain, wailing with every charge that went off near him. _This is humiliating_ , he raged silently. _I need speed, now_!

Thinking fast, he transformed to jet mode, extending his landing gears as he dropped. Starscream fired up his engines, trimmed his damaged wings back and silently prayed the fragile wheels would hold up. They did and he rocketed away, downed but not out.

No one fired on him. He could see Soundwave through his rear scanners and the warrior looked confused, perplexed… even surprised by Starscream’s sudden change in tactics. Which didn’t make sense – Soundwave could read minds if he tried, so surely he knew what Starscream would do.

 _Unless_ … unless his newfound lethality wasn’t due to mind reading.

What had Megatron told the Decepticons? Each of the Planet Keys controlled a different fundamental force. There was one that gave the user great speed, for example. What could that blue disc do? More importantly, what could that blue disc do that would occupy Soundwave for millions of vorns – distract him from running on back to Megatron and handing over the power like the toady he was?

Starscream smiled. _Information_. The blue Key gave its owner access to information. That had to be it! Soundwave was a completist, and the only thing that could stop him in his tracks was a new piece of data… or better, a juicy secret. Starscream would wager his erstwhile comrade had spent four million years “channel surfing” the universe, soaking up data like a sponge and losing all track of time!

He’d probably watched every astro-second of their battles on Earth. The ultimate voyeur, so entranced by the resultant data he forgot to get involved! Then, when he heard Megatron wanted the Planet Keys, his old loyalties kicked back in and he decided to reveal himself. No wonder they hadn’t been able to track the blasted disc until now!

He watched, more carefully this time, as Soundwave attacked Red Alert and Scattorshot. They were acting as Autobots did, pulling the same sorts of manoeuvres and working within their design specifications. Meanwhile, he’d managed to sneak out of the line of fire by doing something out of the ordinary – by running on his wheels, rather than soaring through the sky.

Starscream’s grin widened. The key to defeating Soundwave, and to snagging the Key, was doing the unexpected. And the unexpected was his _speciality_. He toggled a switch in his cockpit. “Red Alert!” he yelled shrilly. “Here’s what we’ll do…”

\-----

“The Planet Key can do _all_ that?”

They were roaring back through the tunnel, determined to catch up to Soundwave. Ultra Magnus was in his vehicle mode while Evac flew above him. The ancient warrior had taken on the form of a rescue helicopter, lifting the design from Magnus’ memory banks.

“It is no mere artefact, young Magnus,” Evac explained. “It is a direct link to the Underbase itself – the eternal chronicle of Cybertron, its inhabitants and their experiences. For one such as I, it gives strength that is not only physical but mental… enhances the perceptions and increases one’s capacity for learning.”

“So for someone like Soundwave, with incredible sensory capabilities,” Magnus replied grimly, “it would have been a god-like upgrade. There’d be no database he couldn’t hack, no conversation he couldn’t listen in on. He threw you into suspended animation and just sat there, listening to the universe. For him, that would’ve been bliss.”

They passed through the ruins of the communication room. “You know something of his nature, besides my tale,” Evac said.

“My opposite number,” Magnus replied. “We stood on opposing sides of the war but in the same position. He served Megatron as I serve Optimus Prime, as loyal to his master as I am to my brother.”

“You follow the will of your Prime, then? You make his orders a reality?”

“I’ve never really looked at it that way, but you could say that.”

“Mm. We are much alike, you and I. On Cybertron, in the time of the 13, I was my leader’s second, happy to be of assistance in whatever ways I could.”

“That surprises me,” Magnus responded. “When I first saw you, first looked at the design of your helmet, I was convinced you were a Prime yourself.”

Evac chuckled. “Young Magnus, have you not looked upon your own countenance?”

Magnus had to admit the old Transformer had a point. His head was similar to his brother’s… prominent centre crest, spikes protruding from spherical audio sensors, cheek and chin guards. Were it not for Prime’s mouth plate, they could be almost identical.

“Not the same,” he said firmly. “I may look like a Prime, but I could never _be_ Prime.”

“Time will tell, Binary Spark,” Evac said lightly. “Time will tell.”

There it was again, that strange designation – Binary Spark – and, once again, there was no time for Magnus to ask what it meant.

They motored out into the open. As they watched, Red Alert drove directly at Soundwave. He was trying to get in close, to attack from inside the Decepticon’s range of motion. Purple light crackled over the crest on the centre of Soundwave’s brow and then burst forth, enveloping Red Alert. The doctor shuddered and fell to the ground.

“A head-mounted null ray,” Magnus groaned. “One shot could knock a Transformer off-line for cycles… repeated doses would put you in suspended animation.” He increased his speed. “Small wonder he got the drop on you, Evac.”

The helicopter growled, his stabiliser wings unfolding to reveal a battery of missiles. “Never again,” he vowed solemnly. “ Never, ever again.”

\-----

Starscream made straight for Soundwave. _Blast it all!_ Red Alert had fouled it all up, just like an Autobot would. He was supposed to knock Soundwave slightly to one side, to make certain the big lug saw Scattorshot and realised what he was about to do! Sure, none of them knew Soundwave was packing a null ray, but that was hardly an excuse for incompetence!

He sighed. Once again, lesser processors had ruined the sheer mechanical perfection of one of his strategies. “You! Scatter-whatever-your-name-is!” he bellowed. “Light it up!”

Scattorshot – in his vehicle mode – spun his turret up at a 90-degree angle. His air-to-air missiles streaked into the sky, aimed at a point just below the enveloping clouds of fire fog. The plan was simple… the sonic boom of the twin explosions would puncture a hole in that fiery barrier, giving Shockblast the window he needed to notice the situation, analyse it and then cremate Soundwave with a single shot of his rail gun.

Right on cue, Soundwave noticed the missiles and raised his gun, ready to blow them out of the sky. He would have known Shockblast was in orbit, that the rail gun could likely do him some serious damage – no matter how powerful he was – and that the threat had to be taken care of immediately. It was a conclusion based on all the available information… and it was the _wrong_ conclusion.

Soundwave could prepare for what made sense. What he couldn’t prepare for was Starscream – deceiver, betrayer, liar and manipulator – creeping up and _just plain snatching_ the Planet Key like a common thief!

As the missiles detonated, Starscream slammed bodily into Soundwave. He transformed and grabbed at the Planet Key with both hands, fingers desperately scrabbling for purchase on the glowing, slightly intangible disc. Recovering, Soundwave pulled back on his shield. Starscream would not back down. “Give me the damn thing, Soundwave!” he yelled. “You’ve been hogging the remote control long enough, you overwrought tape deck!”

Soundwave didn’t reply, save for an angry flash of his optics. Blue lightning crackled across both their bodies, linking their processors and giving Starscream a glimpse of true power… the intoxicating rush of information.

Something scrabbled across his back. “You filthy creep!” Scattorshot hollered, snatching at the Key. “You were gonna do this all along, weren’t ya?”

The struggling trio stood up, each pulling the Key in a different direction. Blue lighting sparked between them all, obscuring their vision of everything but the artefact.

“Let… go!” Starscream demanded.

“Go… to… blazes!” Scattorshot replied.

“Soundwave superior… Transformers inferior,” Soundwave roared.

\-----

“The Key is disintegrating,” Evac said.

They watched as the blue lightning lit the sky. “It was never meant to be wielded by one being for so long, for such a nefarious purpose,” Evac continued. “It is supposed to be a conduit to a repository of information, not a tool for the greed of one being.” He shook his head. “There is but one way to save the Key – to ensure its survival so that you, Ultra Magnus, may take it and save Cybertron. I must merge my life force with it.”

Magnus held up a hand. “No,” he said sternly. “I won’t allow it. I know you feel responsible, like you’ve failed in your duties or whatever, but you seriously can’t…”

Evac smiled sadly at him. “How much we are alike, young Magnus,” he said fondly. “How I wish we had more time to talk, to speak of our lives and of this beautiful world. But this is my destiny – the purpose for which Transformers like you and I are made.

“When things go wrong, when the Prime falters, we step into the line of fire. We are the _balance_ , the middle of a line that starts with leaders and ends with followers. We are the ones who, in the midst of battle, remember to look down and see that which we step upon. And, should the Prime fall, we are there to take command, or to make the sacrifice necessary to ensure the survival of others.”

He placed a powerful hand on Magnus’ shoulder. “I believe Transformers can make friends with the beings of this world,” he said wistfully. “I believe our races can together reach new levels of peace, prosperity and understanding. I never took the time to foster such alliances, so focused was I on knowledge. This is my penance. Now, I entrust my duties – my guardianship of Earth – to you, Ultra Magnus. May you succeed where this old fool failed.”

Before Magnus could react, the blue and gold robot was gone – running full speed at the cobalt conflagration. As he drew closer his form seemed to stretch, as if the colours of his armour were draining into the sparking Key. Soundwave looked up, his optics wide with surprise, and shouted the ancient warrior’s name. Evac yelled something in reply.

There was a brilliant flash of energy, a shockwave that knocked Magnus off his feet, and then silence.

Minutes passed before Magnus’ systems came back online. He pulled himself gingerly to his feet and walked across the plain. What had been lush grassland had become barren soil, its surface scarred by a large and ugly crated. He slid down the dusty sides, trailing clouds behind him, then made for the epicentre of the carnage.

The Planet Key lay dormant, glowing gently, surrounded by a perimeter of bodies. Starscream and Scattorshot were unconscious but operational, while Soundwave lay in an inert lump to one side. He, too, was functional but seemed different to the others… like the life had been drained from his Spark, yet he was still alive. Evac, meanwhile, lay deathly still. His pallor was the unmistakable steel grey of a dead Transformer.

Magnus mourned the lost warrior, though he’d really not known him. He stooped down to the Planet Key and hefted it in his hand. It was surprisingly light, almost ethereal, but it was once again solid. He’d found it hard to believe something like this could save his world but, after the events of the day, he was open to the possibility.

He tucked the Key under one arm and collected Scattorshot with the other. The smaller Autobot babbled incoherently… something about missiles and fire fog. Magnus hoped Red Alert was not too badly affected by the null ray, for he’d need serious help. And where had Tow-Line been during the battle? And Bulkhead?

“Ultra Magnus,” sneered a familiar voice.

Starscream was on his feet, cobalt energy lancing from his metalwork. It seemed as if his numerous injuries had been healed, like he was back at full power… if not better. “You’re not leaving with _my_ Key,” he spat. “Nor with your life.”

The lightning ran up and off his body. With a crack of thunder, an object materialised – a jagged, silver-edged Force Chip bearing the Decepticon insignia. It slammed into Starscream’s back, causing his body to shudder and pulse with blue light.

He raised his arms. With a _swish_ and a _snap_ , two large blades swung out from under his wings – long, impossibly sharp, transparent purple Energon blades. Starscream grinned, swept the deadly knives through the dusty air, and leaped at Magnus.


	6. Chapter 6

The medical bay had no windows. It was too deep into the ship and, ever since the crash, to far below rock to afford scenic views. Instead of windows, one wall of the room was dotted with passive view screens. The devices afforded a glimpse of the outside world on a variety of pre-determined angles. It had been thought the screens would aid in the healing process of war-torn Autobots and Mini-cons.

Bulkhead took no comfort from the view screens. They attacked his optics with images of death – of Red Alert fried by null rays, of missiles ploughing into Scattorshot, of Soundwave wreaking havoc. It was horrific, but still preferable to facing his ghoulish companion… a hideous, leering shape whose true nature was still up for debate.

Sharkticon’s hollow green optics had not left Bulkhead’s face, and he had spoken but once since the force field barrier had been raised. The staring, the silence, was driving Bulkhead insane… even more insane than he already was.

On the view screens, Soundwave blew two missiles out of the air.

He could stand no more. Crouching low, Bulkhead built resistance in his unique leg hydraulics and sprang at Sharkticon. His weapons systems had been deactivated but that didn’t meant he was helpless – a true Wrecker, he knew how to fight bare-knuckled.

Sharkticon’s upper body swivelled 180 degrees, placing his titanium-hard “shell” in Bulkhead’s path. The Autobot impacted painfully with the unyielding armour and slumped to his hands and knees. He heard a mechanical whine as the Decepticon rotated back into his normal configuration.

“One thing’s certain – I’m no delusion,” the Decepticon rasped.

Bulkhead sat on his knees. Colours – purple, orange and dull, ugly green – pin-wheeled across his vision. He tried to raise his arms but Sharkticon kicked savagely at them. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered. “To think I’ve spent centuries laying traps, fattening bait and whispering rumours all with the purpose of killing you. I’m vaguely insulted.”

The Autobot wanted to act but found himself paralysed. The words “missile madness” rang in his audio receptors, over and over again. What if this were all another delusion – what if he’d actually slammed into Ultra Magnus, not Sharkticon? If he were to attack again, unleash his full ferocity, he’d risk injuring a fellow soldier.

He couldn’t take the chance… he couldn’t _make himself_ take the chance.

Sharkticon crouched down next to Bulkhead, resting his clawed hands on the dorsal fins protruding from his knees. “You were the last name on my list, Wrecker,” he hissed. “The crescendo of a million vorns of stalking and tracking and slaughtering. I thought that by playing the fool, the coward, the smelly idiot, you’d come running.”

He slapped Bulkhead across the face. The impact rang like a rifle shot, echoing through the stone and steel corridors of the Earthforce base. It was so loud that Tow-Line – lying unconscious on the other side of the force field – stirred slightly.

“What a waste of my time – all I needed was a stolen remote control and five klicks with a medical computer to learn _I broke you a long time ago_.”

Sharkticon slapped the dazed Autobot two more times. Those blows were callous, contemptuous… little more than a flick of the wrist and a grazing of the fingertips. Bulkhead drooled oil from his synthesiser. “Not… broken,” he choked out.

“Oh really?” Sharkticon laughed. “From where I’m sitting, you’re beyond help.”

He stood up and paced the edge of the force field. “Do you remember what Steamhammer did, that night in the Imperial Amphitheatre? He took control of Overcast’s systems, screwing with his perceptions. Your friend took out more Wreckers that night than the Mayhems did, all because he underestimated a Decepticon.”

Suddenly, the room was bathed in blue light – so bright was the lightning that filled the view screens. Sharkticon waited for it to die down, then continued.

“I’ve made a career out of being underestimated and, at the same time, I’ve long admired Steamhammer’s methods. They seemed… classy to me, almost debonair. They were the sorts of kills that not only slaughtered Autobots, but broke spirits as well. I’ve often wondered if I could pull it off, given the same opportunity as our dearly departed construction vehicle friend. Now… well, now I can find out.”

With a sickening quickness, Sharkticon crossed the room and came up behind Bulkhead. He placed the blades of his Mini-con weapon across the Autobot’s throat and pressed down. Despite his determination, Bulkhead grunted in pain.

“You’ll not die today, Bulkhead,” Sharkticon whispered coolly. His tone was almost conversational. “You’ve been my project for the last few millennia, and you’re going to stay that way. Killing you would be far too easy … not to mention too kind.”

A piece of his “shell” broke free and spun around, revealing a purple-and-yellow missile launcher. The weapon fired, destroying the force field projector and scattering debris around the med bay. A sizeable chunk bounced off Tow-Line’s head and the journalist stirred again, mumbling incoherently.

“I want to watch as you explain your way out of _this_ one, oh fearless Wrecker. I want to laugh as you stumble through the next theatre of war, wondering if your targets are real. I’m going to be the first image in your data banks every morning and the last vid-file you see each night. I’ll be around every corner, just waiting to appear.”

He increased the pressure on Bulkhead’s throat. The Autobot gagged. “Then, one day, when you can’t stand it anymore, I’ll come back. I’ll present you with a loaded blaster, and I’ll watch as you blow your own head off.”

Sharkticon pulled his arm away, and Bulkhead dropped to the floor. By the time he gathered the energy to rise… by the time he felt brave enough to look around… the Decepticon was gone.

Bulkhead only half-listened as Tow-Line came back online, muttering curses. He barely noticed the other Autobot stumble over to the broken force field unit, wondering aloud what had happened. Unconsciously, his hand cradled his throat.

There was no wound.

\-----

Cobalt streaks dashed across his vision, then muted to greens and browns. It took a moment for Scattorshot to realise where he was, to remember the sequence of events that had left him, injured and helpless, flat on his skid plate.

Injured? Well, maybe not. A quick glance over his chassis confirmed an impossibility. The little Autobot’s wounds had not been healed, they were _gone_ – his steel skin was without blemish. Even scars from older battles had vanished, as if he had been recast.

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” he breathed, waving his hands in front of his face. The golden digits were perfectly symmetrical, devoid of dents and fresh as a protoform’s.

“Waitaminnit!” he yelped.

He could _see_ his hands. See them! He was looking at clear, crisp resolution instead of the blurred pixels he’d known his entire time online. Scattorshot looked at the sky, the blackened ground, the world around him and it was hi-res, too.

It took a minute for Scattorshot to understand exactly _what_ he saw. It wasn’t visual stimuli, but data… a stream of information about the things around him. When he looked at the sky, he didn’t see a blue field dotted with clouds – he received meteorological information. The ground beneath his feet was revealed as a wealth of pure data – geological sampling, structural read-outs, heat signatures and more.

If he concentrated, peered past the stimuli flooding into his processor, he could tell his optics were still far-sighted. It wasn’t that he could see his fingers, it was more that he could read their structure, follow their energy signatures and isolate the metals from which they had been constructed.

He tapped a finger on his thick view finder. The new sensations were being channelled through a different receptor. Scattorshot shifted his grip and ran a finger across the large yellow discs on his forehead. They’d never served any discernable purpose and had been mere decorations – once or twice, Kicker had jokingly called them “bifocals”. In a sense, that’s what they had become.

“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Scattorshot said again, this time with more enthusiasm.

Radiation washed over his body – weak, but now discernable to him – and Scattorshot looked at its source. Starscream, giant blades protruding from his forearms, was hacking and slashing at Ultra Magnus. The giant Autobot was limping badly and one arm hung uselessly at his side. He had part-transformed his working hand into a large, black wrecking hook, which he used to parry the unending assault. Every block, however, seemed to drain Magnus’ strength.

“Null ray,” Scattorshot gasped, reading the data. “Those blades ain’t Energon – they’re solidified null ray energy! How the frell did ‘Screamer pull that off?” He’d never been the brightest of Autobots, but Scattorshot could figure that one out on his own – especially when he caught a glimpse of the silver-and-purple disc protruding from Starscream’s spine.

“A Force Chip, all o’ his own. Probably grew the durn thing during all o’ that lightning back there… some kinda hooey side-effect, just like my new eyeballs.” A thought struck him. “Hold on a klick…”

Scattorshot concentrated – on the situation, on his new abilities, on how badly he wanted to help Ultra Magnus and take down Starscream. He’d fired both his missiles, and he’d lost his twin-barrelled rifle during the fighting – if he was going to be of any use to anyone, he needed more than spit-polished eyeballs.

If Starscream got swords, then he wanted firepower.

For a second, his body glowed with blue light, then a Force Chip manifested before him. It was nearly identical to the Planet Key, but was trimmed with silver instead of gold. The artefact whipped over his head, executed a hair-pin turn and slotted into his back, igniting a fire within his Spark. There was a moment of blinding pain as the very metal of his body shifted and warped. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of transformation.

Scattorshot’s turret – which had been fused to his spine in robot mode – separated and raised up through 90 degrees. It slit along a previously non-existent seam to reveal a wicked-looking weapons array. There were ten miniature surface-to-air missiles and nine multi-use ordnance ports. They were loaded with every conceivable form or ordnance – mortal shells, laser rounds, machine gun bullets, gas bombs, even thermal detonators. Each and every port was linked not to his far-sighted optics but to his new data stream vision… and Scattorshot knew just what to do with his new gifts.

Share ‘em around.

“Hey Starscream!” he yelled, feeling like a Tyrestian Vanguard. “Heads up!”

He waited until the arrogant Decepticon swung to face him and loosed his deadly salvo. Starscream had the good grace to look stunned, just for a second, before he started madly swiping at the ordnance with his blades. To Scattorshot’s amazement, he managed to cut through an impressive number of the incoming shells, reducing – but not eliminating – the damage to his chassis.

The jet dropped to one knee, then both, under the inexorable onslaught… putting him in reach of Ultra Magnus’ right foot. The Earthforce commander kicked Starscream so hard the Decepticon sailed up into the air, crashing into the burned soil next to Soundwave. Scattorshot kept up his barrage as Starscream howled impotently.

Data flooded in, and Scattorshot knew help was on the way. 

Kicker appeared first, perched on High Wire and leading the charge. The Mini-con emergency team were next over the rim, joined a second later by Red Alert. The biggest surprise came from the skies above – Omega Supreme blasted through the fire fog unharmed, bearing down in vehicle mode on the battlefield. The reinforcements from Cybertron had arrived at last.

Left with no choice but retreat, Starscream transformed and lifted into the skies. He snagged Soundwave with a magnetic towing cable and dragging the fallen “god” away. Another feed told Scattorshot the retreat had been joined – he could read the distinctive energy signature of Slugslinger, loping along behind his leader.

Scattorshot watched them go. He willed the Force Chip to disengage and felt it fold into subspace, ready for his call. The weapons pods retracted into his turret as the assembly swung back to his spine. He ran to Magnus who had fallen – exhausted, injured but well and truly online – onto his knees.

“Some fireworks display, soldier,” Magnus said warmly. Scattorshot flushed with pride.

\-----

Starscream flew a safe distance from the Earthforce base and released the tow cable, letting Soundwave drop to the ground with a _thunk_. Slugslinger narrowly dodged the inert lump of steel. Starscream didn’t particularly care what happened to either of the pea-brained miscreants. The whole operation had been a farce, due in no small part to the incompetence of his team.

He felt wind on his back – Shockblast had deigned to descend from orbit and join the lowly, beaten mortals. How touching. That same wind carried a familiar odour to his olfactory sensors, heralding the return of Sharkticon. The coward had some sort of black barrel under his arm. Starscream realised it was Laserbeak, Soundwave’s eternal companion, frozen in alternate mode.

For an idle moment, he wondered how Sharkticon had laid hands on the deactivated Transformer. Then he decided he didn’t care – the scared idiot had probably tripped over the dumb bird while running away, knocking both offline for the duration of the fight.

“I can see the mission lived up to your usual levels of success,” Shockblast said impassively.

“Do shut up, Shockblast… I’m thinking.”

Starscream regarded Soundwave with a quizzical optic. What state was he in, now that he’d been cut off from his power? There was still a Spark in there, that was obvious – but how about his processor? Had it been wiped, fragmented like a cheap human hard drive in the blue lightning storm, or had it just cycled offline for a little while?

Deciding to find out, he straddled the corpse-like communications expert and poked him in the optics with one finger.

“Have you lost your frelling mind?” Slugslinger cried in alarm.

“Somebody pull him off!” Sharkticon whimpered.

“Given recent events, that hardly seems the most logical course of action,” Shockblast chastised.

Starscream ignored them all – filing away the realisation Shockblast _had_ been watching despite the fire fog. Perhaps the rumours about the Imperial Amphitheatre massacre were true – that the one-eyed freak had survived because he’d hung back and allowed his squadron to be slaughtered. If so, Starscream would have to revise his opinion of the Deception military operations commander.

He poked at Soundwave’s optics, again and again… until a blue hand reached out and snatched the offending finger. With amazing strength, Soundwave threw Starscream away and stood up, regarding the gathered Decepticons with cool contempt.

“Where is Megatron?” Soundwave demanded.

Starscream grinned and picked himself up. Time to gamble. “Back on Cybertron,” he said, extending his arms in a gesture of friendship. “Our great lord Megatron hand-picked me to lead this operation and now, after vorns of endless searching, you are found!”

“Searching?”

Soothingly, Starscream continued. “When the Autobots raided our labs, you were blown through an experimental Transwarp portal. You ended up here – a pitiful little mudball planet called Earth – where you lay, deactivated, for many vorns.” He smiled his friendliest smile. “In between the fighting, I looked for you, hoping to reunite the core group of Decepticons and smite the Autobots once and for all!”

Soundwave cocked his head to one side – causing the alarmed Decepticons to raise their weapons. Starscream waved them back, at all times keeping the idiotic grin fixed on his face plate.

If he was right, Soundwave had retained no memory of his time with the Planet Key. He was a literal amnesiac – for him, the incident with Nightbeat and Checkpoint had happened a cycle ago. With a little bit of deception, a little bit of guile and bluff, he could sway the prodigal ‘bot back to the ranks.

Megatron, no doubt, would have approved of such subtlety.

“There are… gaps… in my data tracks,” Soundwave said at last. “I dislike gaps – they must be filled in as soon as possible.”

“Leave that to me, old friend,” Starscream said, walking over and taking the larger Decepticon by the arm. “I’ll tell you _everything_ you need to know.”

They walked off together, Starscream babbling about history and Soundwave soaking up every world. Ever the sponge. The others trailed along behind, no doubt wondering what Starscream intended to do… or if he had a plan at all.

He had a plan. Oh, did he have a _plan_! Soundwave may not have known it, but somewhere within his limitless data tracks were the secrets of the universe. The truth about the Planet Keys, about Cybertron, perhaps even the Matrix… a box of secrets just waiting to be unlocked and exploited by someone like Starscream.

He’d tell Megatron what had happened, of course – that Soundwave had been found, entombed in rock, and went on a rage when he was unearthed. As far as anyone knew, that was the truth. Only Starscream had figured out the true nature of the Planet Key, and he intended to make sure he kept close to Soundwave. He’d put some polish on his “friendship” with his fellow schemer, maybe even build a bit of an alliance. They were similar enough, after all, for it to work for their mutual benefit.

And if it didn’t, he’d shoot the dim-witted idiot in the back and extract the information from his processor… with _blunt tweezers_.

Starscream admired his reflection in Soundwave’s chest plate, framed by the setting sun, and laughed heartily. So what if they’d lost one battle, missed out on snatching a Planet Key for their bucket-headed leader? The real prize was _all_ his.

\-----

Ultra Magnus stood in the moonlight and bid his celestial friend a good evening. A pale glow washed over his repaired bodywork and turned the grassy plain grey. Appropriately, the light did not penetrate the crater made by the Planet Key. Evac, defender of Earth, had been buried at that spot in accordance with the planet’s customs. The Autobots had spoken about it and agreed it was the best course, what the older Transformer would have wanted. That the moon did not illuminate the sight of such pain was fitting.

Evac… an image of the ancient warrior haunted Magnus’ thoughts. He knew little about him, but could not deny the connection they’d shared. Evac had served his Prime – whoever that had been – just as Magnus worked with his brother. He’d made the ultimate sacrifice for his mission, just as Magnus had been willing to do on a number of occasions. Realising their links, Evac named Magnus his successor, urging him to work at bringing humans and Transformers together as one – a heady task indeed.

Meanwhile, pieces were starting to come together in Magnus’ mind. He was forming a picture from the information at hand – Evac’s story, Scattorshot’s evolution, Omega Supreme’s report from Cybertron. Vector Prime had duped them all… of that, the Earthforce commander was certain. He’d given them only the data needed to secure their co-operation, and kept the bigger picture hidden.

Out there, far beyond his friend the moon, were three more worlds of Autobots and Decepticons. The Transformers of Speedia, Animatros and Gigalonia had no cause to split down factional lines, but had done so anyway. Combined with Evac’s presence on Earth – a connection pre-dating the Mini-cons’ arrival – the situation was far more complex than they’d been lead to believe. Magnus was unsure what the truth of the matter was, but he was eager to return to Cybertron and find out.

All of which meant saying goodbye to Earth… but only temporarily, he swore. While fighting that last impossible battle against Starscream, he had decided to fulfil Evac’s last request, and act as Earth’s guardian. For some reason, the concept did not frighten him as did leadership, or military responsibility. He accepted his stewardship as he did his tactical role… unflinchingly, happily, even eagerly.

Magnus was given to questioning his every action to the point of self-doubt. Looking at the moon, at the plains, at the night sky of Earth, he decided not to question this.

It felt right, and that would have to be enough.

\-----

“The force field projector _blew up_?”

Bulkhead resented Scattorshot’s tone, and made his feelings plain. “You think there’s some other explanation, Mr High and Mighty Force Chip?” he snarled. “I’ll admit I freaked out a little, that I tried to snatch the gizmo out of Tow-Line’s hands, but that’s it! What, you think I threw him into the wall or something?”

“Kicked,” Scattorshot said, his expression stern. “Not threw… _kicked_.”

The Wrecker glared. He didn’t like the little Autobot’s newfound sense of confidence – it was completely undeserved. After a hundred vorns of neurosis, he was supposed to be taken seriously just because he’d scared off a few ‘cons? Please!

“Stand down, Scattorshot,” Ultra Magnus said as he entered the communications room. “No one’s accusing Bulkhead of anything. Unless Tow-Line has something to add?”

Bulkhead looked over at the journalist, who sat sullenly by one of the ruined consoles. He had no idea what Tow-Line would say, and was fearful of his response.

“Nope,” Tow-Line said quietly. “Just one of those unlucky explosions.” He fixed Bulkhead with a gaze that said _you owe me_ , and the larger Autobot tried not to pass out with gratitude.

“Discussion over,” Magnus announced, taking a seat. “In any event, we have far more important things to sort out. Now we have _this_ ,” he held up the Planet Key, “we need to head back to Cybertron. Kicker and the Mini-cons will stay here while the rest of us travel with Omega Supreme. I’d wager Starscream and his band will be headed back soon, as well. Questions?”

No one objected. Bulkhead, especially, remained silent... because he was paralysed with fear. As Magnus spoke, the room had filled with Decepticons. They had bled out of the walls and coalesced from pools on the floor, casting dark shadows over all his comrades. He watched, mute with terror, as the invaders mutilated the Mini-cons and Kicker, then turned their attention to the Autobots.

“When do we leave?” Red Alert asked, unaffected by the vibro-blade in his chest.

“Right now,” Magnus replied as his severed head fell from his shoulders. “Bulkhead? Are you all right over there?”

The Wrecker opened his optics. The Decepticons were gone, and those in the room were undamaged. Unconsciously, his hand went to his neck, nervously fidgeting for the wound he knew was not there.

“One hundred per cent, Magnus,” he said uneasily. “One hundred per cent.”

\-----

Vector Prime stepped out of the space/time rift and onto the metallic plains of Cybertron. He glanced at the sky and cursed loudly – he’d arrived far, far later than he’d intended.

How could that be? To him had been granted mastery of time itself. He should have arrived in Iacon but an instant after leaving Earth – not cycles, as was evident from the pattern of the stars. He shook a fist at the singularity that loomed over the planet. No doubt it was the culprit… Unicron’s foul stain was affecting reality itself, lessening his powers and warping his efforts to save his world.

He sighed and pushed such thoughts from his mind. Time lost did not mean time wasted, if he acted with haste. Ultra Magnus had said two Planet Keys had been recovered, which would have to be enough. The Blue and Green Keys were lost to the ages – or worse, to the Decepticons. He had to make his way to his namesake and conceive a new plan.

Vector Prime had taken a handful of steps when he found himself under attack. Laser fire tore up the metallic ground before him. He drew his Energon sword but it was shot out of his hands. He hissed in pain and scanned the horizon for his assailants. There were four of them, lurking in the gloom under an orbital loop.

“Show yourselves, villains!” he cried. “Though unarmed, I fear you not!”

The attackers stepped into the light, weapons drawn and aimed at Vector Prime’s head. His face twisted with surprise. “I don’t understand,” he breathed.

Optimus Prime levelled his ion rifle at the ancient Transformer, his expression one of unbridled fury. Nightbeat and Grimlock stood on either side of their leader, while Silverstreak held the vanguard position.

“You have some explaining to do,” Optimus Prime said savagely.


End file.
